


Solar Vellum

by Caritas_Lavellan



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Because everyone has a really weird Valentine's Day sometimes, Detective Noir, Humor, Multi, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 04:51:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5992240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caritas_Lavellan/pseuds/Caritas_Lavellan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric needs a last-minute date in Val Royeaux, and Ellana is prepared to help him out. Paparazzi were to be expected, but not the Nevarran Inquisition, nor yet the man of her dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anchor

**Author's Note:**

> This story starts from Ellana's point of view, but then shifts to Varric, Dagna and others later.

“You free tonight?” asked Varric, smirking into the camera.

Ellana leaned back and ran her hands through her straight dark hair in frustration.

“I’m a studio photographer, not a paparazza. Remember this is for the Orlesian Hall of Fame and not the Chantry Sun. It would help if you tried to look a little less…”

“Ruggedly handsome? Irrestible?”

She pursed her lips in disbelief. “Sleazy was the word I had in mind, Mr Tethras.”

Varric winced, but removed the smirk and sat up straighter. “Call me Varric. We’ve been at this shoot so long I’m sure we must be family by now.”

“It’s only been…” Ellana checked her phone. 18:34. _I need to get going._ “Two hours… Varric.”

He grinned, spoiling the shot again. “Then you definitely deserve a drink. What do you say, Daisy?”

His assistant looked up from where she’d just plucked out a mobile from a bowl of rice. She switched the mobile on, then sighed. “I think… oh dear… I think your phone is broken, Varric.”

“No shit. Nothing like dwarven ale for destroying fancy electronics.”

Ellana took the opportunity while Varric’s thoughts were far away to take the perfect shot. Regret lit the famous author’s eyes, tuning into something that he normally hid below the surface. She’d read his books, knew there was more to him than the lovable rogue he played.

She took a few more, to be sure. Celene would pay well for these.

Varric turned and gave her a slow wink. “We done now, Miss Lavellan?”

 _Bastard_. “Do you have nothing better to do than take up half my evening?”

“The whole of it sounds good to me, if I can tempt you out to dinner at the Anchor. My treat. Not as if I can text any of my other friends to keep me company. I lost their numbers with my phone.”

“I’ve got his contacts in a notebook, but that’s in Kirkwall,” explained Daisy, for the second time.

The Anchor was the second-most exclusive restaurant in Val Royeaux, after Miroir de la Mère. Ellana laughed, surprised. “The Anchor? Are you serious? What time? I’m due to visit someone first.”

“I’ve a table for two booked for 9pm. The woman I’d invited there said no. Please, do come. Not a date, just company. The food’s incredible, and the place is fully booked for months ahead.”

“That was why the ale, you see,” blurted his assistant. “Oh wait… should I have said that?”

“I’d take Daisy,” said Varric, ignoring her, “but she never goes out to restaurants here with me.”

“I’m scared of menus,” admitted Daisy. “I never know what to choose, and they’re always written in such complicated Orlesian. And the waiters are not always very nice if they see that you’re an…”

“An elf?” completed Ellana, bristling. “Well, I’m not sure if you’d noticed, Varric…”

He walked across the room to where she was packing up her equipment. His real smile was genuinely charming. “I’ve never had that problem at the Anchor, and I don’t go back anywhere I do. I’d be honoured if you’d join me, Miss Lavellan.”

“Ellana, please. All right, I’ll do it.” She smiled back. “I’ll be there at nine.”

****

It had been five to nine when she arrived. The maître d’ had shown her to a sofa and arranged for her a cocktail while she waited, a Gamordan Stormrider. She'd sipped at it and looked around the room, admiring the teal and brown and silver decor and trying not to stare too obviously around the dining room or at the other diners. She realised with a shock that this was Valentine's Day - a day she usually tried not to acknowledge - and so the room was full of couples. Two of them she recognised: Madame Vivienne, the editor of _Surge_ , was there, with their latest front-page model, Rowan Guerrin.

Models were getting younger all the time. Rowan must be sixteen at most, all eyes and limbs and glossy pout. Vivienne looked slightly bored: her eyes kept darting around the room. Ellana remembered classic shots of Rowan’s mother Isolde Guerrin, taken by Fen'Harel (who else?) before his name became notorious.

Her fist clenched unconsciously around the tinted stem, and she drained the remaining Stormrider in one go. She became aware that somebody was watching her, a well-dressed man – an elf – sitting at a table on his own, working carefully through a plate of dainty frilly cakes. The desserts here must be very good, or maybe he simply preferred to be alone. She placed the glass back on the table, suddenly feeling high on glamour. The man was rather handsome, really.

Varric was there just after ten past nine, blaming his lateness on the traffic. She smiled and waved his apologies away. She'd never have been here if not for him. They were ushered to the remaining vacant table, in a bay window that was far away from the handsome man. The bay projected over the river, giving them a stunning view of the evening sunset and the Grand Cathedral.

“This is wonderful, Varric. And I’m sure the photos will be too. I’ll send you a proof of the one they choose to hang up in the Hall of Fame, so you can clear it before it goes to print.”

He smiled, and adjusted his golden cufflinks. “Where was it you had to visit first, if you don’t mind me asking? Can't have been far away. You look magnificent.”

Ellana blushed slightly at the compliment. The dress had been one of many presents from Celene, as continued thanks for preventing the star’s assassination several years ago. Straight and silky and cut to just below the knee, its dark blue matched her vallaslin. She’d grabbed a pair of strappy silver flats with jewelled bows, more tactful than her favourite 4-inch heels for dinner with a dwarf.

“My aunt Ethie. She’s in a nursing home just down the street from my apartment. Mind’s still sharp as a needle but she can’t walk any more, and she’s in some pain from all the medication.”

“Is she Dalish too? Ethie being short for something long and elven, I assume.”

The waiter came along and took their order _:_ an Antivan sharing platter of _hors d’oeuvres_ , _sole meunière avec pommes vapeur et asparagus Orlesiène_ for Ellana, _krone au vinaigre à l’Alamarri_ for Varric, and a bottle of pear spiced wine to drink. He smiled kindly at Ellana, and a broader smile for her companion, perhaps in anticipation of a healthy tip at the conclusion of the evening. Ellana suspected Varric was the generous sort.

“Yes, her full name’s Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan.” Ellana paused to dip a crusty bread roll into Nevarran olive oil that lay pooled within a clamshell dish. “My mother died when I was ten, and she’s been like a second mother to me ever since. Ethie’s spent her life writing and collecting Dalish fairy tales. I thought I’d finally managed to persuade her that she should publish them.”

“But?”

“The University of Orlais Press say she needs an illustrator, and Ethie’s very picky. She’s turned down all the ones that Josephine suggested. Apparently the only one that might do is somebody called Solas. But he’s got no agent I can find. I’ve been looking for him for weeks.”

“Solas who? In case my publisher knows of him.”

“Just Solas, I think. It must be a _nom-de-plume_ , or _nom-de-pencil_. He did the illustrations for some classic elven texts that Ethie knows, and that is who she wants.”

“I’ll ask around.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

The waiter arrived with the sharing platter, and poured out the wine. Ellana remembered pear spiced wine was a favourite of Celene’s as well. It was delicious. This whole day was turning out very well at last. She looked out at the river, where gondolas wove their way beneath lanterns and strings of bunting, silken hearts and flowers. Happy couples in every boat… except for those two.

She looked again. A tall woman was standing up within one gondola, at a guess Nevarran, wearing a long white flouncy dress at odds with the ferocious scowl upon her face. She was staring straight at Ellana, looking furious. Another gondola pursued it, with two paparazzi sitting in it, flashbulbs flaring, while a third tried to juggle its pole while wearing a camera still round his neck. They all wore masks of Fen’Harel, the wolf-head balaclava that the paparazzi favoured.

The woman was glaring at the back of Varric’s head: was this the one who’d dropped his phone in ale, the one who he’d invited first? Ellana coughed to get his attention from the jellied eels, and discreetly pointed at the window, a bare moment before discretion became absolutely pointless.

“Varric! I’m going to kill you, Varric!”

The gondolas stopped below the restaurant’s open window, clearly paid to do so. The silver-haired elven gondolier piloting the woman secured the mooring with an amused expression. The other gondola span round, its controller less experienced, perhaps. Varric was looking horrified.

“Ellana. I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, before getting up and walking swiftly between the tables.

The cameras were now pointing at the window, straight at her. She sat there frozen, not knowing what to do or where to turn. Should she follow Varric? Should she put a brave smile on her face and gulp down jellied eels and pickled eggs, and wait it out?

The minutes passed, she made a show of eating food, and eventually the gondola’s controller managed to make his mooring. They all leapt out, presumably to go round to the Anchor’s entrance and watch the show unfold from there. She realised with a sick feeling of dread that everyone was watching her from within the restaurant too. Rowan was outright giggling, and even Vivienne had an eyebrow raised. Varric did not return, and the maître d’ had quietly followed him.

Ellana began to wonder whether they’d expect her to pay for dinner, or if Varric was sufficiently well-known to them that she could ask to put it on his tab. Her hands shook slightly – she’d no idea what food cost here, but it surely was expensive. And she’d need to find a tip.

The maître d’ came back into the room and made for her, still calmly smiling, but was intercepted by another waiter (not the one who’d smiled at her), who murmured something quietly and passed over a folded note. Ellana watched closely as a look of blank amazement briefly displaced his professional mask, and then looked down as he approached her table, intensely self-conscious.

“Good evening, Mademoiselle Lavellan. I am here with the compliments of Solas, who wonders if you would like to share a glass of wine with him when you have enjoyed your meal, or immediately if you prefer. We have another table in a smaller room, away from any windows, if that would be more desirable for you.”

“Solas?”

She noticed that the handsome elf had inclined his head to her. _Was that him?_

The maitre d’ followed her gaze and smiled. “That gentleman in the corner, yes, who is here on his own as well. He said that you might recognise his name, _n'est ce pas_? He also said that he will not be offended if you refuse, but understands that you have been wishing to converse with him on a professional matter. And, he is happy to escort you through the paparazzi after, if this would also be of service.”

Ellana took a deep breath and said yes.

  



	2. Hippocampus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellana and Solas converse over dinner.

Ellana had accepted the offer of sitting in another room, and the maître d’ had quietly and tactfully reassured her that anything she ate or drank tonight would not be charged to her account. He then paused, waiting for her to speak, and she decided to sacrifice pride for curiosity.

“Has Mr Tethras left?”

His face betrayed only the slightest flicker of amusement. “Not yet, mademoiselle _._ ”

_But you don’t think I should wait for him. Okay._

Ellana picked her clutch up from the table and made her way slowly to the door, followed by the maître d’. She forced a calmness on her face that she was hardly feeling, and let her hips sway slightly, held her head high – I am in control of this – as she passed Madame Vivienne and Rowan.

Everyone was carefully not looking.

They walked past the empty table where the handsome elven man – Solas – had been sitting. Some kind of subtle signal must have passed between the waiting staff, for he had already left the room. Perhaps to limit further gossip.

The maître d’ indicated that Ellana should precede him down a teal and silver corridor to a staircase. Flights of stairs ran up and down, adorned with outsize illustrations of sea creatures, both fabulous and real. As Ellana paused beside a particularly fine example of a cetea, a mermaid with sharp spines in place of hair, a deep baritone voice emerged from a room downstairs.

“Ms Pentaghast, I will be able to complete my examination far more quickly if you would kindly step out of the light. You cannot heal pain by hiding it.”

The maître d’ coughed. “Mademoiselle Lavellan? Please follow me upstairs, if you would be so kind.”

At the top, a smaller room nestled underneath the sloping eaves, its walls a dull maroon. It seemed more like a study than a dining room. Two large armchairs were placed beside the fireplace, unlit in the summer evening heat. Both armchairs were empty.

Ellana looked at the maître d’ in surprise. He bowed and indicated she should take a seat.

“I will let Solas know that you are here. Would you like us to bring your next course to you now, mademoiselle?”

“Sure,” said Ellana, selecting one of the armchairs and tucking her clutch beside her on the seat. Away from all of the amused titters and side-glances, she had realised she was ravenously hungry. End of a long day, after all, and she hadn’t really stopped for lunch. Too many baby bookings.

She took the opportunity to check her phone. Tomorrow would be Saturday: another Chantry wedding to do. Photos at the hairdressers and the home before the ceremony and reception. It had been another recommendation by a friend of a friend of Celene’s. By itself it would pay her assistant’s salary for the next ten days, or Ethie’s care fees for a week.

She was staring blankly at the phone, wondering when her next free Saturday would be, when she realised she was not alone.

“Miss Lavellan? I am sorry that I was detained. I hope you do not mind me…”

It was Solas, and he hovered on the threshold as if unsure whether he had permission to come in. Behind him, a waiter carried a heavy tray, fashioned to sit across her lap and immaculately laid with gleaming cutlery around a silver covered dish. A further waiter followed him, with wine and glasses on a smaller circular tray.

“Please, call me Ellana. And do come in. This is really very kind of you.”

Solas smiled, and she felt her heart flutter, just slightly, in her chest. As if by mutual consent, they simply inspected each other while the waiters fussed around, settling the tray with _sole meunière_ across Ellana’s lap, moving side tables within reach, and pouring a glass of white wine for both.

When he sat down, his neatly creased dark pinstriped trousers rose slightly to reveal plain black socks tucked into smart black shoes. A crisp white shirt and a long black tie emerged above the lapels of his suit jacket. His hair was shaved close to his head, just barely there.

“I hope you don’t mind that I chose the wine,” said Solas, after the waiters had left. “I took the liberty of asking what you would be eating. This one is the best accompaniment for sole.”

He reached out his arm to take the glass, still sitting back in his chair with a curious smile playing on his lips. Ellana noticed with surprise a bright red bloodstain on the cuff of his shirt.

“Did you cut yourself?” she asked, feeling a concern that surprised her for his welfare and the words escaping from her mouth. She’d have to watch how much wine she drank tonight.

His eyebrows drew together in surprise. “I’m sorry?”

“The cuff of your shirt. It’s…”

Solas placed the wine back on the table and lifted his hand to inspect his cuff. His lips quirked, as if at some private joke. “No, this is not my blood. I… I guess I had better tell you, otherwise who knows what dark deeds you might suspect me of.”

She swallowed another forkful of the sole and _pommes vapeur_. It was delicious. “Tell me what?”

“I should first say that I am a doctor.”

“I thought you were an illustrator,” interrupted Ellana, now confused.

“I am both. Or at least, I was an illustrator, before I trained in medicine. I have a private medical practice, and continue illustration work occasionally when time permits.”

Ellana nodded, lifting a stem of asparagus between her fingers, and biting into it. She’d never had the money to afford to eat in a restaurant like this, nor, if she were honest, the inclination to go out to one alone. She took another swig of wine to chase it down, and waited for him to continue.

“I was attending to the man who you were dining with, a Mr Varric Tethras, I believe?”

Something clicked. That baritone voice she’d heard on the stairs – it had been his.

“What happened? Is he ok?”

“More wounded pride than anything more serious, I think,” said Solas, frowning at his wineglass. “Miss Pentaghast – do you know her?”

Ellana shook her head. “The name sounds familiar, though, but I can’t place it.”

“The unusual attire she was wearing may have confused the issue. She works for the Chantry corporation as a war reporter. You may have seen her on the news reporting from Seheron or at refugee camps in the Anderfels. Cassandra Pentaghast? The lady who disturbed your evening.”

“ _That_ was Cassandra Pentaghast?”

Solas grinned, and she felt that little flutter once again. “The very same. I found it mildly disconcerting to see her in a ruffled dress rather than a flak jacket. Anyway, Miss Pentaghast’s fist connected with Mr Tethras’ jaw. The rings that she was wearing cut his lip.”

She almost forgot her dinner for a moment, in sympathy for the author. “Oh no, poor Varric. First his phone, and then his lip. How will he get past the paparazzi?”

Solas shrugged, as if paparazzi were a minor inconvenience. Or perhaps he thought that the dwarf deserved his fate, Ellana couldn’t tell. “What happened to his phone?”

“It was dropped in dwarven ale this morning. That’s why he invited me to dinner – he had a reservation here and couldn’t contact any of his other friends to replace… well, Cassandra Pentaghast, I assume. I was taking a photo of him for the Orlesian Hall of Fame. I’m a photographer, you see? This was a special commission. It’s all weddings and babies and graduations, mostly.”

His face fell, almost imperceptibly. “Ah. Does that count?”

Ellana felt annoyed. “What do you mean, does that count?”

“Taking stilted photographs of couples is not truly art.”

“And your illustrations are?”

“Well, yes. Did you see the pictures on the stairs?”

“The cetea and hippocampi?”

He nodded, eyes widening slightly. “I am surprised that you know their proper names.”

“Because I take photographs of babies and go for dinner with people like Mr Tethras?” Ellana stabbed at the asparagus with her fork. This day just seemed to go from bad to worse.

“Because so few people do, these days,” he said, then added, more gently, a faint blush staining his cheeks: “I’m sorry, I did not mean to offend you. I am sure that the photographs you take are very… nice.”

She shook her head, not trusting herself to say anything. For Ethie’s sake she should conclude this piece of business, find out if he would do the illustrations for her book. She polished off the remaining food, and drained the last of the wine. It was… really… nice. Such a pity the man who chose it was so disagreeable. She forced her voice into a professional pitch, eliminated the traces of anger. Taking photographs of babies was good practice in being patient, even if it wasn’t Art.

And yet, his apology had seemed sincere, as far as it went.

“How did you know my name and that I had been looking for you?”

He looked relieved. “A friend showed me a request that you had posted in a magazine. He had found a photo of you, from your website.”

“Then you knew that I was a studio photographer already?”

“No,” he clarified. “My friend only showed the photograph, not the website.”

She softened her voice still further, coaxing. “Are you interested in illustrating the book it mentioned? Ancient elven tales, for the Orlais University Press. The agent there is Josephine Montilyet. She’s extremely competent, and will negotiate a contract with you.”

Solas didn’t answer immediately, but instead stared into the depths of his glass, white wine swirling slightly round and round. Then he tipped it down his throat, one quick graceful movement.

“Are you interested?” she reiterated, hearing footsteps coming up the stairs.

He looked across at her, and smiled. “Yes, Miss Lavellan, I do believe I am.”

 


	3. Gateau

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Cassandra Pentaghast.

It really was unfair how good he looked when he was smiling, eyes dreamy and unfocused, no longer sharp and cold. _Ice melts, apparently._ Ellana tore her gaze away and looked towards the door. It hadn’t opened. Was somebody listening out there? It didn’t seem like the kind of restaurant where the waiting staff would eavesdrop on a private conversation in this way.

Solas must have thought the same. “Hello?” he called.

When the footsteps began to descend the stairs again, clicking softly, his face lit with sudden illumination. He got up from his chair and opened up the door, looking down the staircase.

“Miss Pentaghast?”

Ellana stiffened in her chair, wondering how best to lift the heavy tray that sat comfortably across its arms, if she needed to escape. If the woman had hit Varric had she come up here on purpose to complete the job? And if so, how would she react in Solas’ presence? A human Chantry war reporter might retain some bias against elves, even twenty years on from desegregation.

The footsteps stopped, and Solas tried again.

“Miss Pentaghast, if you came here to say something, please do come up and join myself and Miss Lavellan. How is Mr Tethras doing?”

He stood back from the door and courteously inclined his head as Cassandra Pentaghast walked in.

She was taller than Ellana had been expecting, similar in height to Solas. Her white dress brushed against him as she walked towards Ellana and the fireplace. She did not take a seat.

“I apologize,” she said immediately and stiffly, looking at Ellana. “Tonight… was not your fault, and I am sorry for the inconvenience.”

Cassandra Pentaghast held out her right hand, bare and muscled to the shoulder, and Ellana couldn’t prevent herself from staring at her spiky metal rings and the studded armlet that encased her wrist. A thigh-high slash in her sleeveless ruffled dress revealed lacy tights and high-heeled polished boots, black to match her lipstick and short dark hair.

Ellana took a deep breath, and took the woman’s hand, wishing she could move the tray to stand and then realising she would still look tiny in comparison. Alas for her favourite blue high heels.

“I must admit, I’m still not sure quite what is going on. I only met Varric for the first time today when he came for his appointment at the studio with his assistant Daisy. Of course, I’ve read his books.”

“Hasn’t everyone?” drawled Solas, leaning against the doorframe. He turned as if at some noise downstairs, and beckoned the hovering waiter up. “Take a seat, Miss Pentaghast.”

“I do not even know your name, Mr…” said the Nevarran woman, awkwardly sitting on the armchair and placing one spiked hand upon another in her lap.

The waiter came in, the kindly one who’d smiled at her before the evening all went weird. He was carrying a lightweight chair, which he gave to Solas with a knowing grin before he cleared Ellana’s tray away. She smiled her thanks at him, and nodded shyly when he asked if she would like dessert and coffee with it. If their desserts were as good as everything before…

“I recommend the _gateau montsimmarde_ ,” murmured Solas as he placed the chair beside Ellana, before turning to the waiter. “Perhaps, Théo, some coffee for the ladies? I’ll have my usual.”

“I’ll have the gateau and an espresso,” agreed Ellana. The man was an elitist snob, but she had enjoyed the wine; no need to dismiss his suggestion just to prove a point about her independence.

Cassandra agreed to both as well, a bleak smile softening her blackened lips, and Théo left.

Solas had positioned the chair facing Cassandra, to the side of and slightly behind Ellana, so she had to crane her head around to see him. If she knew him better she might have been able to tell if he had chosen it deliberately to discompose her. Something in his manner suggested it was possible.

He waited until Théo’s footsteps started down the stairs before resuming the conversation. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. They know me here as Solas,” he continued, first smiling at Ellana, and then turning to Cassandra. “But if Mr Tethras wishes to look me up professionally, he should search for Dr Velouteau.”

Cassandra nodded, clearly filing away the name for future reference. “I am grateful for your intervention, docteur. I… I would not want you to think that I would normally…”

Solas shook his head. “It is of no concern to me. Mr Tethras will recover, and since he seemed to believe that he deserved it, who am I to disagree?”

“Do you really report from war zones?” asked Ellana, longing to ask again what happened, but resisting the temptation. _Patience, da’len._ Perhaps she could find out from Varric later.

“Yes. I just got back last night from the disputed Tevinter-Nevarran border region. I’ve been up since 2am. My flight from Minrathous got in to VRA just before lunchtime.”

“And you are Nevarran?”

Cassandra laughed. “Yes. You doubtless guessed it from my choice of going-out attire.”

“It is rather traditionally Nevarran: _noir et blanc_ ,” agreed Solas.

“Although, by that measure, I would be Orlesian.” Ellana turned to smile round and back and up at him, smoothing her hands along her thighs to emphasise the silky blueness of her dress.

He looked surprised. “And you are not?”

“I am proudly Dalish,” laughed Ellana. “Can’t you see my _vallaslin_?”

“Such categories were eliminated at desegregation,” said Solas, his eyes gone icy blue again. “Those who still refer to themselves as Dalish are missing the entire point of the process.”

She would have retorted angrily, but while he spoke Théo and a colleague had returned again, with two espressos, a glass of pale green liquid and the gateaux. They gave the strange liquid to Solas and placed the trays again across the armchairs’ arms. It was a clever design, and clearly intentional.

 _Trapped by cream and chocolate,_ thought Ellana, startled by the quantity of both.

“You cannot fault Orlesian desserts,” said Cassandra, her eyes also widening in anticipation. Whipped cream was soon smeared across her lips as she delved into the sweet dark chocolate spilling out between the layers of pastry, devouring it both hungrily and messily.

“I guess that you missed dinner too,” said Ellana, half to herself. She began to eat the gateau more sedately, taking sips of coffee. The espresso was just the way she liked it: rich and slightly bitter.

****

The gateau was too sweet for her, and when, eventually, she laid her fork and spoon across the plate, with more than half of it still to eat, Solas coughed gently.

Ellana craned her head around again to see him, and found him looking wistful.

“Are you not inclined to finish the gateau?”

“It is lovely, but too sweet for me I think,” replied Ellana, then, with a surge of amusement, realised his intent. “Would you like to finish it, docteur? I cannot think it is entirely healthy for you.”

He reached out his hands for the dessert plate nonetheless, and Ellana smirked and wiped the spoon upon her napkin. “No, not entirely. But a little bit in moderation… balance…”

She almost reminded him of the plate of frilly cakes he’d grazed through earlier, then stopped, reality returning to her mind. They’d managed to find common interest in talking of Nevarran television shows: gothic drama, period romances. She had almost forgotten all the earlier events.

“What about the paparazzi?” asked Ellana. “Will they still be waiting for us?”

“Probably,” sighed Cassandra. “There will be some excellent shots of me in the gondola, I’m sure.”

“But not of you hitting Mr Tethras?”

“Not the exact moment, but they saw him bleeding. He said that he would certainly not press charges, since everything today was probably his fault, but…”

“Are you worried that you might lose your job?” asked Solas, suddenly concerned. “I would hope not. You are an excellent reporter, and do not deserve to lose all that for a moment’s indiscretion.”

“I will call you as a character witness if it happens,” decided Cassandra, knocking her espresso back with a practised flick of her wrist.

Solas shook his head, licking chocolate from his lips. “You would certainly be better with someone who has known you longer, someone who knows your temperament.”

“It’s not the first time,” said Cassandra, gesturing with her coffee cup. “Anyone who’s known me long enough to know my temperament knows that. Assign me to a war zone and I stay calm for weeks. If someone asks me on a date, I go to pieces.”

“Why?” asked Ellana, still wondering how they’d escape the paparazzi.

The Nevarran woman’s eyes gleamed with an intensity that was bordering on madness. “Romance must be perfect. Candlelight and flowers. Poetry and song. When Varric told me he had booked a table at a small place on the river, I thought he meant a pub. It would have been demeaning and I told him so. He was checking something on his phone and so I thought that he was not taking me seriously again. Like when he put me in his book as that Orlesian police detective.”

Ellana was just managing to keep her face straight. “You were Portia de Gaste? The one who…”

“The one who brought down an entire Tevinter spy ring dressed in only her undergarments for half the book, yes,” sighed Cassandra. “I honestly don’t know why I even speak to him at all these days.”

“Where is he now?” asked Ellana.

“I called his assistant. He agreed that he would have her drive him home and get an early night, and that he’d try to get the paparazzi to follow him instead. I said I must apologise to you, and he said that I would like you. That… is true, actually. Perhaps not everything he says is entirely a lie.”

Solas had polished off the gateau and his strange green drink, and suddenly stood up. “So maybe we will be safe after all. Shall we attempt to leave? It has certainly been a fascinating evening.”

Cassandra lifted her tray off the chair and placed it on the ground, while Solas performed the same service for Ellana. He’d perceived correctly that she would appreciate assistance. As he ducked his head towards her, she breathed in a dusky scent of aftershave: _felicidus aria_ and _embrium_.

It really was unfair how nice he smelled… as if it cut a path right through her brain to something urgent, primitive and… Dalish.

She’d blame the wine.

  



	4. Interloper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Dagna Janari and an uninvited wedding guest.

“So, what happened next?” asked Dagna, accelerating suddenly to overtake a slow-moving goods truck, then swerving back into the slower lane.

Ellana was glad that Val Foret was only twenty minutes further down the road, and surreptitiously wiped her hands on her trousers once again.

“Well, that was the strangest thing. How normal it all became. There were no paparazzi. Cassandra ordered a taxi and invited me and Solas to share it. They dropped me off first since I lived closest. I would have taken the Metro home, but Cassandra insisted that we come along with her.”

“Was it one of those fancy limousine taxis? The pink ones are the best. I’ve always wanted to ride in one of those. Perhaps when I graduate…”

Ellana shook her head, and as Dagna chattered on about the wonders of pink limousines, she drifted into her own reverie.

Dagna’s car was pink, like the rims of her sunglasses, her blouse, her glittery nail polish and her spiked loafers. Ellana had asked her to wear a blouse and black trousers for this wedding, but there the similarity between their outfits ended. Ellana was dressed in a crisp white blouse and smart black courts, while Dagna’s hot pink blouse was covered in tiny nugs in psychedelic colours: lime and navy and neon yellow. At least nugs were in fashion at the moment.

****

The bride, Lady Sylviane, was going to be dressed in a traditional mask and white velvet Orlesian dress, long and straight, trimmed with golden lace and pearls. Her mother, Lady Cerise of Val Foret, had apparently determined that she should marry for love, not consequence – a rarity among the Orlesian nobles – for the groom was a serving army officer, neither noble nor Orlesian. Or so Ellana had gathered from the snippets of conversation they’d let fall during the booking and while having hair styled earlier that day.

He was, however, rather handsome, Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath in Ferelden.

As Ellana set up their equipment for all the formal shots that Lady Cerise had recommended in the Chantry, she watched him pacing nervously up and down the side aisle, fiddling with his cuffs and with the buttons on his scarlet regimental jacket. A golden half-mask hung in his hand.

This was the tricky part at formal occasions: to find the right times to take the obligatory “informal” shots. Their vantage point from the upper gallery meant that Ser Cullen was more than likely not aware that he was being watched.

“Want me to get one of the groom?” whispered Dagna, her lightweight camera round her neck.

“Yes, but not when he’s actually chewing on his fingernails. He’ll look much better when he doesn’t look so terrified. Tall, blonde…”

“Yeah,” grinned Dagna. “Tall blondes are kind of a thing for me as well. Not so much the male ones though. You can keep your Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath to yourself.”

Ellana smiled back, and shrugged as Dagna moved away to get a better angle. A Chantry wedding wasn’t what she wanted. Stifling incense, smelly candles, lessons around how Maferath stuck with Andraste while she wept each night… until he betrayed her to her death. The more weddings she attended, the more bizarre she found it all. She’d had to learn it all at school, of course, but she’d never really paid attention in those lessons, scorning it as forced assimilation. Lady Sylviane was welcome to it, and to any man who prayed like he was doing now, on his knees before the altar.

_Not my culture, not my home._

She’d grown to love the city, slowly: its parks and rivers, shops and streets. But… _I’m not Orlesian._

There was a sudden camera flash, and she was about to follow Dagna round and tell her off, when she realised that the flash hadn’t come from that direction, but from the gallery’s other side.

Somebody was hiding behind a pillar, a flicker of a dark red coat just visible from here.

Dagna had seen it too, and put her camera down to look curiously across towards… an intruder, or a guest taking the opportunity to spy upon the groom? Lady Sylviane hadn’t mentioned any other photographers. She’d said they’d have the narrow gallery completely to themselves.

Within the Chantry, the ushers had begun to show the invited guests to their seats. Ellana began to step quietly around the gallery, trying not to attract any attention from below. She had a reputation for being discreet and unobtrusive, _the perfect choice for noble weddings_ , so Celene said to her friends, and friends of friends. She didn’t want to ruin that today, despite her assistant’s hot pink nug blouse. It had taken her so long to build the business up, what with not being… Orlesian.

But before Ellana could get any closer, Dagna had approached the pillar, and grabbed the mysterious figure’s arm. Dagna was far stronger than she looked, and easily pulled the person out from where they lurked. Ellana let out a soft gasp of surprise, hastily muffled by her hand.

The interloper wore a mask of Fen’Harel, above a scarlet bodice and a pair of ancient threadbare tartan trousers. She towered above Dagna, who still held her arm, preventing her from taking photos. Ellana moved round fast to join them, taking advantage of the growing chatter from the guests below. Only the woman’s eyes were visible behind the mask.

“What are you doing?” she asked crossly, looking up at twinkling grey eyes filled with mischief.

The woman muttered something, but Ellana couldn’t hear.

“I’m sorry, we can’t hear you,” said Dagna, still smiling broadly as the woman shook her arm to try to wrench it from her grasp.

Ellana took advantage of their wrestling to take a peek at the camera’s screen. The last picture taken was a close-up… of herself?

“Why were you taking pictures of _me_ just now?” she snapped, more loudly than she meant.

There was a sudden hush below, and she shrank back towards the wall, as the few guests who could see them from this angle turned to look. Dagna took the hint as well, and yanked the woman’s arm to pull her back into the shadows of the pillar.

But the move misfired. With a shrill cry of triumph, the woman managed to free herself and legged it for a nearby open window, thankfully out of sight (if not sound) of the nobles down below. Ellana and Dagna exchanged bewildered looks as she levered herself up on to its frame and eased herself through the casement. They were twenty feet up, surely she could not expect to jump from there, and with a camera too? Yet… Dread Wolves had a reputation for getting where you least expected.

“I’ll boost you up so you can look,” said Dagna, and Ellana grinned and nodded. She’d have to get back soon to take more formal photos, but they had another fifteen minutes, probably.

She carefully stepped on to Dagna’s shoulders, thanking the gods that the student was so strong, and put her hands upon the window frame as Dagna stood up to her full four feet. The woman was running down the sloping roof to where she leapt across to a statue of Hessarian. No guests in sight, _Mythal’enaste._ From there, an easy clamber down. The last Ellana could make out of her, she was running, camera still around her neck, to where an old red car awaited, the driver masked as well.

“Let me down. She got away,” whispered Ellana as the car drove off in a swirl of dust.

“Wow, that’s amazing,” said Dagna. “I wish I could climb like that. I wonder if they’d take dwarves into the Dread Wolves. Why do you think she took a photo of you? Something about last night?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Ellana, smoothing down her blouse. “Come on, let’s get back to work.”

  
  



	5. Petit-four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of cake, champagne and cameras.

Val Foret Chantry was situated within walking distance of the Hôtel du Lion Rouge, the city’s grandest hotel, in whose grounds the wedding banquet would be held. Ser Cullen and Lady Sylviane were lucky, thought Ellana, to have hit on the best day of the summer for their celebration. Most of the formal group photos had been taken outside the Chantry, but a few would be taken by the gazebo here, or later by the lake. Before the meal the bride and groom would welcome each pair or group of guests in turn, and she would be taking photos of them while they stood in line.

It would take her a long time to process and edit the hundreds of photos, but she was getting a generous fee for this, so she wasn’t about to complain about the work. Besides, it was good to see everyone happy for the couple… or mostly everyone, at least. There had been a few murmurs from the relatives of the father of the bride – apparently long deceased, and not much missed, even by those relatives – about the groom’s Fereldan background.

Dagna laid the tripod and a heavy bag on the ground beside Ellana, then straightened up with a smile. “I’ll just pop back to the car to get the small one with the spare lenses, in case you need it.”

Ellana started to set up the tripod once again. She was standing by a table laid out by the hotel’s staff with pink champagne and tiny petits-fours: meringues and macarons and tartlets. They’d had a bottle of water and a sandwich in the car before they’d set up for the ceremony, but that had been three hours ago now. The smell of raspberries and chocolate was enticing.

A few guests were beginning to arrive. As she fiddled with the camera settings, checking light and length, she could see them out of the corner of her eye: a tall man with his back to her, assisting an older lady in a wheelchair; a group of blonde Orlesian women, probably school friends of Sylviane’s; and… _oh, no, was that Celene’s cousin coming over?_

Ellana groaned. Gaspard was a nuisance at the best of times. From his uneven gait across the grass he was already somewhat drunk. He must have gone out to a pub between the Chantry ceremony and the reception: it wouldn’t be the first time in the many weddings Ellana had seen him at. It was scant consolation that Celene disliked him as well – she wasn’t here to defend Ellana.

“Ah, the little camera rabbit,” said Gaspard, putting his arm around her shoulders and giving her a not-so-friendly squeeze. “Celene does so love her little pets. Are they feeding you well?”

His breath stank of West Hill brandy, and Ellana recoiled. She could see Dagna returning from the car, but also the Orlesian women giggling. One of them, in a lilac dress, was pointing at her and Gaspard, and making eyes at him over her fan. “Get your arm off me, please, monsieur.”

To her surprise, Gaspard immediately complied, while murmuring, “…so ungrateful…” in her ear. The women sauntered off towards a table, already bored of them.

He busied himself with the nearby delicacies on offer. Ellana turned back to her camera screen, ready to approach the women, occupy herself in taking photos. Her ears were slightly pink, but after all, this was Gaspard, it was a wedding, it was only to be expected. _Ellana, breathe._

But Gaspard had not given up on taunting her. “It’s not good manners not to feed your pets,” he said from behind her, and slipped the glass of champagne around her and against her lips. Desperate not to let any drops of alcohol fall on her expensive camera, she jerked her arms forward to keep it away. The movement spilled the pink champagne right down her chin and over her previously pristine blouse. She stared down at the large rose-coloured splash that marred the white.

“How clumsy of you, rabbit,” smirked Gaspard, and callously pressed a chocolate petit-four against her chest with his other hand, his fingertips rubbing up and down against her nipple.

Ellana’s cheeks were burning bright red now, as she span around to face him. First the intruder at the Chantry, and now this? As she did, Dagna finally reached them, and pulled his arm away. The remaining crumbs of chocolate on his hand fell on to the grass beside his smartly polished shoes.

“Great Ancestors, what happened?”

Ellana simply shook her head, and bit her tongue. She’d seen Gaspard before knock someone out when he had got this drunk. She didn’t need a black eye as well as a ruined blouse. Though… she wasn’t about to admit this one was her fault, not this time around.

A waiter employed by the hotel had also seen the incident and come to help. With some assistance from Dagna, he moved Gaspard away and persuaded him to sit at a table far away from them. Ellana watched them go, then shook her head in disbelief as she looked down at her blouse. She’d add it to her list for weddings: _change of clothes, in case…_

“Ellana, are you ok?” asked Dagna, looking up at her. A worried frown marred her face, usually so full of smiles and cheerfulness.

“Yes… well, no, not really, but Gaspard can be like that. The problem is my blouse – I don’t have a spare, or anything to change into.”

“You don’t really need me for this, do you? You could wear my blouse, it’s longer than it looks…”

Dagna put her hands to her waist, and was clearly just about to pull the pink blouse out from where it was tucked into her trousers, to illustrate her point.

“No!” said Ellana, quickly, at the same time as she heard another “No!” from a deeper voice behind.

It sounded familiar, and she looked over her shoulder to see who the speaker was.

Startled green eyes met merciless blue ones. _Solas_. And when her gaze tracked further down, it met the hazel eyes and thoughtful smile of the white-haired woman in a wheelchair she’d seen earlier. Ellana almost turned to face them, then remembered the state of her blouse, and stopped.

“Dry cleaning,” said the woman, incomprehensibly.

Solas clearly made an effort to drag his eyes away from Ellana. “Dry cleaning?”

“Yes, _da’len_. I knew there was a reason I asked you to pick it up before we left Val Royeaux. Solas, dear, would you be a gentleman and bring this lady my blue portmanteau, in case there is anything she can use from it?”

His eyes widened, and he nodded. Without a further word he walked off quickly to the car.

The woman turned to Dagna. “Would you mind, my dear, pushing me towards that small gazebo? We can look as if your friend is taking photographs of me and get her changed discreetly. I fear that if she went into the hotel she’d run straight into the other guests. We were ahead of most of them, but only by a little way.”

Dagna looked to Ellana, who nodded. She began to push the wheelchair. “Thank you, that’s a great idea. I’m Dagna, by the way, and this is Ellana. She’s my boss.”

“Pleased to meet you. I am Sophie Aubriana, and Solas is my godson. He was very kind to bring me here, as in general he finds weddings difficult.”

Ellana was only slowly beginning to recover her composure. She hoped the woman’s taste in blouses was less garish than Dagna’s, and cast a surreptitious glance at Ms Aubriana’s dove grey suit.

“I think I have a couple of white blouses in my portmanteau,” said Sophie, almost as if she could read Ellana’s mind. Her smile grew even more thoughtful. “Your name is… Ellana? Not Ellana Lavellan, by any chance?”

“Yes,” said Ellana, wondering whether Solas had discussed the previous night with his godmother while they drove here just like she had with Dagna.

“How intriguing,” said Sophie. “I used to know an Ethie Lavellan, and she said she had a niece Ellana, who would be… about your age now. Ethie had dark hair just like yours. Is she any relative?”

Ellana smiled. “Yes, she’s my aunt. She lives in Val Royeaux. How did you know her?”

They’d reached the gazebo, and Dagna manoeuvred Sophie’s wheelchair around inside so that Ellana could sit facing her while hidden from the passers-by. Sunshine streamed through trellises entwined with crystal grace and embrium, dappling Ellana’s hands upon her knees. She took the camera off from round her neck to place it carefully beside her, and frowned down at her blouse.

Sophie shared a grimace with her as she held it away from her body: a sticky, sodden mess of dark brown and creamy white and pink stains all over her front. Her assistant had walked away to collect the portmanteau from Solas. He had courteously stopped some distance from them and beckoned to Dagna to take it, before turning away again. Ellana supposed that it was not really him who’d come to her rescue this time, which was good: she didn’t want to be beholden to him.

“Oh, it was a long time ago, my dear, and so much has happened since. So you are Ethie’s niece… well, well, I’m glad that I can help today. Thank you, _da’len,_ ” – this last to Dagna, who had handed her the portmanteau – “let’s see. Ah yes, a blouse that I think will fit you. I’ll close my eyes.”

She handed over a simple ivory blouse, trimmed with lace, and finer than Ellana’s own, and closed her eyes while Ellana quickly shrugged her own off, and got the new one – Sophie’s – on. It fitted perfectly, and still smelled beautifully fresh from the dry cleaners’ perfume.

Ellana breathed a sigh of relief as she passed the dirty bundle to Dagna to hide in the bag she’d brought, and put her camera round her neck again. “I can’t thank you enough, Ms Aubriana. You’ve been so kind. _Ma melava halani. Ma serannas._ ”

The woman’s eyes softened further, and her accent sharpened, to something more distinctively elven, even… Dalish?

“ _Mala suledin nadas,_ Ellana,” said Sophie, smiling. “You are welcome. I’m sure you have a long afternoon ahead of you.”

She nodded, and then returned the smile, feeling her confidence return. “Your hosts would be delighted if they could have a picture of you at their wedding. Would you like me to take one just of you, or also with your… godson?”

“Don’t you need your tripod, Miss Lavellan?” asked Solas, startling her again. In response to a gesture from his godmother, he sat down on the bench beside the wheelchair.

Ellana shook her head, and raised the camera to her eyes. “I have steady hands, docteur.”

“Even after all that wine you drank last night?”

She could feel Dagna staring at her, her quick mind making the connection, just as Sophie looked from Solas to Ellana and clearly made another one. Impulsively she pressed the button to capture that moment – not for Cullen and Sylviane, but just for her – and then lowered the camera to meet Solas’ eyes. They’d lost their icy edge again, and were clearly laughing at her. With her.

“I’m Dalish. We can hold our drinks. You saw what happens to Orlesians when they have too much.”

His lips frowned briefly in remembrance – Gaspard not forgiven, then? – but his eyes retained the laughter. “Indeed. Go on. Take the photo that you need for the official set. I’ll be good.”

She didn’t doubt it.

  



	6. Hearthcakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellana bakes hearthcakes to take to Ethie, and gets a shock.

The best thing about Ellana’s small third-floor apartment was the view from the kitchen, looking out over the central square of the high-rise block, to trees and a maze of shrubs and herbs. Her rent was paid monthly to an organisation called the Gilivhan Trust, some kind of charitable foundation that had been set up soon after desegregation, and it employed a gardening firm to keep the trees and shrubs in order.

Often on her day off and in the evenings, children played around the maze, laughing, chasing, screaming, catching, but not today. This morning, the rain poured down in sheets, as hard and grey as the previous day’s sunshine had been bright and joyous.

Ellana had groaned as she’d pulled back her curtains, and resolved to cheer herself up with baking hearthcakes. Then she could take them round to Ethie later in the day, to eat with Josephine as they discussed the progress of her book. They might have to eat them cold, with ordinary apple jam, but it would remind Ethie of happier times, and take her own mind off the dreams she’d woken up from. Dreams of long ago, of times before the past got broken.

“Flour, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, sugar, berries, egg and milk…” she muttered to herself, checking off the items on the tiny iron bistro table she’d picked up going cheap, now painted Dalish green.

She opened up the fridge again and found the halla butter at the back, its golden wrapper embossed with a stylized halla head in white on red. A necessary treat. Baking powder and salt were in the cupboard under the sink, in a wooden box. It nestled between a bucket filled with cleaning soap and cloths and brushes, and the old clan statue of Fen’Harel, faced away towards the outlet pipes.

The second-best thing about Ellana’s apartment was how close it was to Ethie’s nursing home. It had been more or less the only apartment in this area where she could afford to pay both rent and care fees from her business profits. And since she spent every day but this at work, she’d decided it didn’t really matter that it was so small: a single room for living and sleeping, a kitchen and a shower room. So long as she could see some trees and sky, she’d cope.

Some day perhaps she might afford a large house by the river, or one of those new apartments near the Grand Cathedral – the district now called Vhenadahl where the alienage had been – or… take a holiday to Ferelden and camp out in Brecilia for a month. But until then she’d make hearthcakes on the griddle she’d inherited, too big for this Orlesian hob.

And even Ethie might admit the smell would – almost – be the same.

****

“I had the dream again last night,” she said to Ethie, as they sat in the grand dining room at La Fôret, by the window closest to the trees and rain, waiting for Josephine’s arrival. She’d given the box of hearthcakes to the new young weekend helper to warm and put out on a plate, as a pleasant surprise and proper hospitality. It was kind of Josephine to come out here on a Chantry feast day.

Ethie frowned, and added another pinch of elfroot to her afternoon glass of dandelion wine.

“The wolf? Did you remember any more, _da’len_ , any more than last time?”

Ellana shook her head, a few drops of water from her sopping hair thrown sideways by the motion.

“No, it’s just the same. I wake up in the aravel and can hear Mamae sobbing and Papae scolding Neria. Then I look out through where the cloth was ripped and see the wolf’s face looking down at me. He puts a finger to his lips – or where his lips would be, you know – and then it all goes black.”

“ _Dirthara lothlenan'as bal emma mala dir_ ,” said Ethie, half command, half prayer.

“I wish it _were_ a forgotten land. It’s probably because of those paparazzi that I’m dreaming of it now. I hadn’t had the dream for years, then two nights in a row.”

“You should make the offerings to Fen’Harel again,” said Ethie automatically, wincing at a sudden bout of pain, then caught Ellana’s reference. “What paparazzi, _da’len_?”

****

Ellana chuckled. “So then she climbed down Hessarian’s chest, and legged it for the car. Dagna was already half-besotted with her, gods know why – and I was just…”

Ethie looked puzzled. “But why did she want a photograph of you? Why not just take one from that website that you showed me?”

“I hadn’t thought of that, but either she doesn’t know my name or any photos on the web are too low res. What I don’t know is where she’s going to publish it, or when… or why. I can’t afford to buy up every Orlesian magazine for the next few weeks on the chance that they might have it.”

A soft rattle of a tea trolley sounded from the hall, and footsteps, and Josephine’s cultured voice, softened from her native Antivan by many years in Val Royeaux. She paused in the doorway to locate them, audacious and exquisite, dressed in a white-gold shift dress and bronze jewelled heels, with a smart leather satchel slung over a shoulder. Ellana had often wondered if she moonlighted for _Surge_ or another fashion magazine. The other staff she’d met from the university press over the last two years for meetings about Ethie’s book all tended to the drab and dull.

Josephine was never drab. But she did look worried.

“Thank you, I do appreciate you showing me the way,” she said to the young man with the trolley as he came across behind her, and began to unload the tea and cakes. His name badge read _Cole_.

He nodded. “The griddle was too big for the hob, but she made them to forget it all.”

Josephine took a seat with only a brief expression of confusion flickering across her face, as Ethie took in the scent of hearthcakes and smiled properly for the first time since Ellana had arrived.

“You made hearthcakes, _da’len_.”

“Are these a Dalish treat, Miss Lavellan?” asked Josephine, following Ethie’s lead in taking one and slicing it length-wise, then spreading it with apple jam.

Ethie nodded. “We used to bake them any time that we could get the sugar and the spices.”

“You still look worried, Josephine,” laughed Ellana. “They aren’t so different from Orlesian cakes.”

Josephine sighed, and put the hearthcake down, a tactful mouthful washed straight down with tea. “They’re delicious, Ellana. But that’s not the problem.”

“What is it? Did he get in contact with you?”

“Yes, he did. It’s not that either – though I’ll come back to that in a moment too.”

“What’s the matter?”

The Antivan wiped her hands carefully upon the creamy napkin that Cole had placed beside her, then reached into the satchel by her seat and handed a battered copy of today's Chantry Sun to Ellana. “I’m sorry it’s… well, you see… I don’t read it myself, but someone else was reading it on the metro and I picked it up when they got off and left it on their seat.”

“ **Decked!** ” ran the large print headline on the tabloid.

Underneath were four large photos: Varric and her at the table in the Anchor; Varric with a bleeding lip and scowling face; Cassandra on the gondola looking pensive; and the close-up of Ellana that must have been taken in the Chantry at the wedding, with the contrast maximised to bring out the dark blue of her vallaslin and the sharpness of her ears against the bright white Chantry walls.

“Oh…” said Ellana, her eyes widening and her shoulders shaking slightly as she read it through.

“ _Dirth ma, da’len,_ what is it?”

Ellana cleared her throat, and began to read, putting on a flat mock-Royan accent. “Ze renowned author of _Hard in Hightown_ , Mr Varric Tethras, was ‘oisted with ‘is own petard two nights ago at the Anchor when he was… assaulted… by a beautiful but savage elf-maiden he had taken as ‘is escort for the evening. His ex-girlfriend, Miss Cassandra Pentaghast, the famous news reporter, sailed gallantly to his rescue. She was later seen weeping over coffee…”

Josephine stiffened. “Cassandra is a particular friend of mine, Ellana. What happened?”

“Cassandra hit him, not me. She stood Varric up, having wrecked his phone in dwarven ale so he couldn’t call her to apologise, and he asked me in her place. We’d only just met – I had an appointment to get his picture for Celene’s Orlesian Hall of Fame. The whole thing was an accident, at least on my part. And that stuff about Cassandra weeping is just pure garbage. We ate gateau afterwards – with Solas as I texted you – and took a taxi home together.”

“And to term you as an escort…”

“That might give me extra business, Josephine, you know,” laughed Ellana, refusing to let it bother her too much. “I could play up the beautiful elf-maiden angle.”

“And she’s still terribly in love with Varric, though you’d never get her to admit it,” said Josephine, slowly relaxing. “I’ve always hoped they would end up back together, some day.”

Ethie had been eating her hearthcake, quietly, but with a frown gradually growing on her face. She put her plate down with a clatter, and glared at the younger women, but particularly Ellana.

“ _Venavis._ I fail to see humour in this _shemlen_ writing. We Dalish are not savages. We are the last elvhen! Never shall we submit. You will write to their proprietor and demand an apology, Ellana.”

Ellana flushed, embarrassed by her aunt’s reaction. “Not _shemlen_ , Ethie, please. We can’t say that.”

“We can say anything we choose, _da’len_. That was the point of desegregation, was it not?”

Ellana shook her head – they’d had this argument before, too many times – and finished off her hearthcake. It tasted sourer than she had imagined it while baking: too many cranberries, too little nutmeg; and the dandelion wine was wrong as well. The rattling of the tea trolley from the hall was like an omen: nothing perfect stays for long, not even tea and cakes.

Josephine waited for half a minute, sipping at her tea, before pulling out her phone and finding an email. “Shall we get to business? Has Ellana told you about our good news, Miss Lavellan?”

“She told me that she met with Solas – although you didn’t say, _da’len_ , that you had _dinner_.”

“It was after the first paparazzi, Ethie,” said Ellana in a quieter voice, more subdued. “I said I ate some pudding with Cassandra, but actually it was Solas who first rescued me and got me somewhere away from all the windows. He was…” … _an arrogant Orlesian elf…_ “…quite helpful, really,” she completed, aiming for an air of nonchalance and suspecting that she missed it.

“How did he know who you were?” asked Ethie, as Cole leaned in front of her to take her plate.

“I told him,” said Cole, dreamily. “The girl with dark blue eyes and hair to draw and die for.”

Three pairs of startled female eyes watched him push the trolley off.

“What did he just say?” asked Josephine.

  
  



	7. Clutch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get complicated.

Ellana’s aunt was the first to drag her eyes away from Cole’s retreating back, and back to Josephine. She paused a beat, still stiff from pain, or anger about the paper headlines, and waited until her niece turned around as well. The wind still shook the trees and blew the rain against the windows.

“Dark blue eyes,” said Josephine, looking at them both. “Strange, because Ellana’s eyes are green.”

“A strange young man,” said Ethie, firmly. “Perhaps he got Ellana’s eyes confused with mine.”

Ellana wasn’t fooled, but kept quiet. She knew her aunt was also remembering Neria, who had shared her dark blue eyes, just like Papae had as well, and had had Mamae’s bright red hair. But Ethie was probably right as well, that the helper had mixed up the colours of their eyes.

What was it Solas had said to her, that someone he knew had shown him a photo from her website?

“That must be it,” she agreed. “Will you excuse me a moment?”

She picked up her clutch bag from the table and made her way back into the hall. Her rucksack hung in the cloakroom area with her coat, both sodden when she took them off, probably still quite damp. Her footsteps echoed in the atrium as she crossed the chequered marbled floor, quickly stepping after Cole. She caught him just before the kitchen, and reached up to gently touch his upper arm.

“Hello,” said Cole, managing somehow to look both happy and confused to see her.

Ellana smiled back. “Hello… Cole. How do you know Solas?”

“He’s a friend. At the hospital. He helps people and I help them too. It’s harder than here.”

“How did you know I was looking for him?”

Cole looked puzzled. “Are you? He said he’d be at home with Sera.”

A sudden sour taste filled her mouth, worse than cranberries. “Oh. He didn’t say he was attached.”

“They don’t like being together. Sometimes they argue. Sera doesn’t like me,” confided Cole, looking sad. “She says my eyes are raisins.”

“Better than cranberries,” said Ellana, automatically.

“Yes, much better,” said Cole, cheering up immediately. “I don’t like cranberries.”

Ellana was about to ask again how Cole knew she’d been looking for Solas, when the home manager came along, asking him politely but firmly where the tea was for the other room. She snuck away to freshen up and recover some composure.

****

Five minutes later, and she’d better get back downstairs soon, to Josephine and Ethie. But she lingered for a few more minutes, to cool her cheeks and dampen down her dreams.

Solas _had_ been flirting with her. She might have imagined it at the restaurant, with that lovely wine, but certainly not yesterday, for that brief period at the wedding where they’d met.

And she had to admit it, she had liked it, had liked _him_ … She’d watched him through the afternoon, quick glances between photographs, catching his smiles and elegant gestures both through the lens and as she carried her camera around. He’d known that she was watching him: the careful way he’d never looked at her except just once, a slow smirk curving up the corners of his lips as heat came to her cheeks behind the camera frame. She’d had to take that photo twice.

Last night she’d even begun to think of ways she might begin to conspire with Josephine to seek to know him better as he worked on the illustrations for the book of Dalish fairy tales, imagining them with heads bent close together over his drawings and her saying… _actually, I paint as well. And I can bake Orlesian cakes. Would you like to come for coffee some time? I can show you._

She’d imagined setting him right about the Dalish, explaining how he’d got it wrong. Many noble Orlesians wore masks inlaid with vallaslin these days, ignorant of the history behind each pattern. If he’d liked her for knowing words like _hippocampus_ and _cetea_ , wouldn’t he understand that it was necessary to preserve her culture, not allow it to be watered down, mutated?

She’d thought that they might laugh together about their shared dislike of Chantry weddings.

But now… that part made sense. Why Sophie said he hated weddings – well, if he argued with his wife like Cole had said, that wasn’t so surprising. Maybe she was Dalish too: _Sera_ was an elven root, in phrases like _ma serannas_ or _ara seranna-ma_.

Ellana groaned and shook her head at her own stupid reflection. She couldn’t get involved with a married man, no matter how charmingly arrogant and kind and talented he was. In the mirror, her hair was still damp and slightly frizzy at the edges – hardly hair to die for. His wife was probably far more beautiful than her. And in any case he should certainly not be flirting with a woman he met while eating solo at a restaurant. _Ethie would be horrified with you if you even thought of him, now that you know_ , she thought, as she abandoned all attempts to smooth her hair.

Best to stay right out of his way, let Josephine and the Press take care of things.

The Press… oh, gods, those photographs.

Perhaps Ethie _was_ right, that she should take it up with the Chantry Sun, get them to print an apology. She might even call in a favour from Celene, see if she knew the editors. In Val Royeaux it wasn’t always who you were, but who you _knew_ , that mattered.

****

By the time Ellana eventually got back downstairs, Josephine had concluded her immediate business with her aunt, securing her agreement to the terms that might be offered to Solas to do the illustrations for her book. Ellana was thankful neither of them appeared to have marked the length of her absence, or least were too polite – or annoyed – to make any comment about it.

“So he is willing, but it might take more time than we had hoped,” said Josephine, “because it needs to be fitted around his other commitments.”

“Cole said he works at the hospital,” said Ellana, wondering what kind of other commitments were included in his caveat. Presumably Sera was among them, even if they argued. Did he have children?

Ethie perked up. “A doctor, _da’len_? What a fascinating combination, to be an artist and a healer. It reminds me of our clan’s Keeper from when I was young…”

She drifted off into reminiscences of her Dalish upbringing, to which Josephine listened politely and Ellana hardly at all, having heard them many times before.

When the gilded clock struck five, Ellana kissed her aunt goodbye and walked back out again into the hall with Josephine, who was asking her for her recipe for hearthcakes, and if she knew whether the various Dalish clans around Orlais had had different recipes.

As they were collecting their belongings from the cloakroom, Josephine’s phone rang.

“Oh… it’s Cassandra, do you mind if I take this now?”

Ellana shook her head. “Go ahead.”

As she put on her long blue trench coat – still as damp as she’d expected – she couldn’t help but listen to the one-sided conversation that ensued.

“…well, actually I showed it to her… no, I know you didn’t know I knew Ellana, but I do…”

“…it’s not important now. I’ll explain later… yes, I’ll warn Ellana…”

“…no, Cassandra, I don’t think that that is necessary… no, I really don’t…”

“…do you really think they would go that far? Oh dear, I do see what you mean…”

“…is Varric with you? Perhaps if he… oh, hello, Varric, how nice to speak with you again…”

“…but can’t you influence them somehow, stop them from carrying out their plan?”

“…oh, I see, they’ve already gone and done it. Well, that does…”

“…wouldn’t you prefer to explain it to Ellana yourself, Varric?”

“…yes, she’s right here. I’ll pass you over.”

Josephine had been pacing up and down, heels clicking on the marbled floor, and casting apologetic glances. Halfway through the conversation, most of which she couldn’t hear, Ellana had decided to ignore the damp patch that her coat would inevitably leave upon the chintzy sofa that nestled by the cloakroom between two handsome bronze Andrastian figurines, and had sat down upon the sofa.

“Hello?” she said, trying to sound calmer than she felt, and making space for Josephine to sit beside her on the sofa. “This is Ellana Lavellan. Is that Varric Tethras? How are you? What is going on?”

“Ellana. Good. Apparently you have the worst luck. So… this is going to be tricky to explain.”

“I’m listening,” said Ellana, wondering what else was going to… _had_ gone wrong. Varric’s voice was slightly slurred, and she hoped that his lip was healing. Or else he’d drunk a lot pre-dinner.

“Riiight. So you know that lots of people read my books. Well, some of them are kinda crazy. And not _I’ve read your Tale of the Champion sixty times this weekend_ crazy. Well, those too, of course, but…”

“Varric, get to the point,” said Cassandra’s voice, impatiently interrupting from the background.

“Well, yes. Anyway. I have crazy fans. Lots of crazy fans. And lots of those crazy fans live in Val Royeaux. So…” She could hear him taking a deep breath. “Some of them saw the Chantry Sun this morning, and... well, they worked out who you are, and where your business is.”

“What have they done?” asked Ellana, clenching her unencumbered fist upon her lap.

“Andraste’s ass, I’m sorry, Ellana. And Cassandra’s sorry too. Your website has been hacked and now redirects to some elven… escort agency. And not the high class kind. The kind that… well, you…”

“That’s even not the worst of it, Ellana,” broke in Cassandra, sounding indignant. “Somebody went round to your studio and broke all of the windows. We only knew because Varric drove past it on his way to me just now. They sprayed _Go home Dalish_ right along the wall. And _Justice for Varric_.”

“I’ll pay for all the damages,” said Varric, “Just as soon as my next advance comes through. I’ve had a lot of expenditures lately, but it’ll only be a month and then I’m sure…”

“ _I_ will pay for it, Ellana,” cut in Cassandra. “It’s my fault as well as his. I have already called the editors of the Sun and have ordered them to publish a retraction, but it will likely be too late. Varric is going to try to get the saner members of his fan club to try to calm the others down.”

Ellana was speechless, and eventually managed, in a small voice: “So why did you phone Josephine? Were you trying to get hold of me?”

“That’s why we looked at your website, but the number’s no longer there. And Merrill’s on a flight back to Kirkwall. Varric decided to stay for a… Why did you decide to stay on here, Varric?”

He sounded embarrassed. “Because… because… I was going to… oh, _shit…_ propose to you.”

“You… you… No. That is _not_ how you are going to propose to me. I utterly forbid it, Varric!”

 _Gods, these two are crazy._ “Uh… I think I’ll see if Josephine can drive me round to assess the damage,” said Ellana, as Josephine nodded vigorously. When no response at all emerged from the other end, she quietly cut off the call and handed back the phone to Josephine. “I’ll explain.”

****

It was only after they’d unlocked Ellana’s studio and looked at the spray-painted broken mess inside, that Ellana sank to the floor amidst the shattered shards and began to weep silently. Ironically, the rain had stopped. Brilliant sunshine lit a rainbow overhead, visible above the houses on the other side and through the broken glass, each sharpened piece reflecting spectrums.

All her hard work, building up a reputation, and all her careful elegant displays… all ruined, for a stupid impulse to go to a fancy restaurant with a man she hardly knew, and his utterly moronic fan club. And those bloody paparazzi with their Masks of Fen’Harel.

Everything the wolves touched in her life, they ruined.

Josephine crouched beside her, dustpan and brush forgotten, a soothing hand upon her back. She’d given up on making her a cup of tea when she found the milk was spiked with… something not-milk.

“Cassandra said she’d pay for this, she’s a good friend, I know she means that…”

Josephine’s voice broke off as a shadow fell across the... where the glass would have been.

She nudged Ellana, and spoke in a whisper. “Do you know who _he_ is?”

Ellana looked up, through tears, and sighed. Just when she had thought this day – this _week –_ could get no worse. “It’s Solas.”

She stood up, gathering from somewhere, gods knew where, the courage to pull around herself the shreds of her professionalism, and went to open up the door. It seemed hardly necessary, given that he could have simply stepped right through the glass, but she appreciated the gesture he was making to respect her privacy.

“Ellana…” he said, awkwardly, as if he’d realised that he might be intruding. “I am so very sorry.”

“It was not _your_ fault,” she said, surprised.

He shook his head, and followed her inside to where Josephine was watching them both curiously.

“I am Solas,” he said, frowning at her. “I… was passing, and I noticed this.”

“Oh yes – this is Josephine Montilyet, of the University of Orlais Press,” said Ellana, remembering her manners. “You have corresponded, I believe. About the book? The illustrations?”

It seemed to take him longer than she expected to place Josephine, but understanding dawned after a few seconds, and an answering smile lit his eyes as he held out his hand to the Antivan.

Then he turned back to Ellana. “Do you… would you like some help in clearing up the mess? I have some experience with recovery from disasters.”

“Aren’t you needed somewhere else?” said Ellana, perhaps more sharply than she’d meant.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said, his eyes widening, as Josephine passed him a dustpan and brush she’d found, and began to look for containers to put broken glass in.

_So much for staying out of his way._

And as they worked for the next half-hour, salvaging the papers and equipment that they could, some stupid, treacherous part of her kept casting sideways glances at him… and wondering why he’d been passing by… and why he’d stayed to help. Josephine’s help she could accept – she’d known her long enough, and perhaps she felt obliged, on Cassandra Pentaghast’s behalf. But Solas… well. She didn’t want his charity. Though with sleeves rolled up and dust across his face, he seemed far less arrogant, more approachable… more problematic.

At least he didn’t know about the website. Yet.

  
  



	8. Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everything is far too sharp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quicker update this time. Thanks for all the kudos and comments - this is my first attempt at a modern AU so feedback always welcome. :)

Ellana had suggested that Josephine put her paperwork back into boxes, as the job least likely to mess up her expensive dress. The intruders had broken off locks that secured the filing cabinets and tipped them over, leaving paperwork all over the floor. Perhaps devoted fanatics of the written word considered paper sacred, for they hadn’t torn it up or set it all alight.

And her precious camera lenses were all safe, even the ones she hadn’t taken to the wedding in Val Foret – _was that only yesterday?_ – because she’d kept them in a fitted cupboard with a dwarven lock that even Varric’s devotees hadn’t been able to break.

Solas had helped her sweep up the glass into boxes, five in all. There was far more than she would have expected from the shattered windows. It glittered, sharp and splintering and endless.

“Once I’ve cleared the glass away and had the windows put back in, the main job will be to paint the walls,” said Ellana, stretching her aching back muscles and looking around the studio. An odd calmness had settled over her, as if somehow she always had expected this to end this way.

Solas nodded in response, and pushed the final box of splintered glass against the wall that now read, in neon pink, _Savage Dalish bitch._ “Do you have someone that can do that for you?”

She ran her hands through her hair, calculating surplus profit. “Not sure I can afford it, unless Cassandra or Varric can pay me straightaway. To be honest, I’m not sure that I can even afford to replace the windows. I might have enough paint to do the walls myself.”

“You don’t have insurance?” asked Josephine, frowning at perceived improvidence.

Ellana laughed mirthlessly. “I looked into it, but the few insurers that will consider selling to a Dalish businesswoman also charge the earth to do so. It’s just me against the world, I’m afraid.”

Solas coughed. “I could offer you a loan to help you get the windows fixed, and if you want, I could help you paint the walls.”

“I’d rather not…” began Ellana, then caught sight of Josephine’s encouraging face behind his back and suddenly thought of Ethie, and of Dagna, and of rent to pay. She swallowed her pride.

“A loan, you said? Are you sure you can…?”

“I can afford it, yes. I could even charge you interest, from the date Cassandra pays you. Not before.”

“Well, that’s… very kind of you,” said Ellana, fighting back a tide of bitterness. She’d fought so hard to be an independent woman, not reliant on assistance like so many elves in Val Royeaux.

Perhaps he understood something of her reluctance, because he simply nodded. She watched him as he walked away to check the window frames and see if any had been damaged.

Ellana jumped as Josephine’s voice sounded softly in her ear. “Our helpful illustrator seems to be determined to behave with the utmost propriety. How fortunate that he turned up at last.”

She answered in a level tone, pitched low as well: “Why should he not behave himself? He is a doctor after all. He’s used to helping people.”

“Well, if I am any judge, I’d say that he is interested in you. When the officers have been, do you want me to pretend I am engaged elsewhere tonight so that you have some time alone?”

“The police? Why would I have called _them_?” asked Ellana, in a louder voice, ignoring Josephine’s last suggestion, as Solas came back over to them, brushing dust off his shirtsleeves.

Josephine looked puzzled. “I assumed you had already, when I was looking in the kitchen to make tea. Before Solas came, just after we arrived. I was wondering why they were taking so long.”

“Have you ever seen an elven officer in the Orlesian Guard, Ms Montilyet?” asked Solas, his eyes briefly meeting Ellana’s in a moment of unexpected understanding. _They just don’t get it, do they?_

“Well, no, I suppose not, but I assume that there must be some,” said Josephine. “Do you mean to say that you believe that they don’t treat elves equally?”

“If they came here right now, the first thing that they’d do would be arrest me,” sighed Ellana. “They wouldn’t believe an elf could be the owner of a business in this area, far less a Dalish elf.”

Solas looked as if he were about to say something, but had thought better of it.

“Surely it’s not that bad,” said Josephine. “Maybe it _was_ that bad once, but times have changed.”

“Not that much,” said Ellana. “I only get away with wearing vallaslin because so many humans fake it using make-up, they can’t tell real tattoos from fake. It’s fashionable to look illegal.”

“Which is as bizarre as any Orlesian fashion, I suppose,” said Josephine. “I must admit, I’d never guessed that yours were permanent. When did you have it done? Was it painful?”

Ellana nodded, one hand tracing the lines across her cheeks, trying not to be self-conscious in front of Solas. “Very painful. I must have been eighteen or so. I probably wouldn’t have had them done had it not been for my boyfriend at the time.”

Josephine’s eyes widened. “Did not your aunt object?”

“She was _proud_ of me,” said Ellana, smiling at the memory. “And of him. We were both rebels together, stuck in Val Royeaux and hating all the forced assimilation. If it hadn’t been for the ban on Dalish marriage, I’d certainly be married now.”

“So something good came from desegregation,” said Solas, almost to himself.

He seemed amused, and Ellana was about to let fly at him, propriety and finance equally forgotten – _you know nothing of my past!_ – when a sudden sound of sirens down the street made her freeze. Her mouth went dry. Solas appeared to have a similar visceral reaction to it, his head snapping around to locate the source of the intrusive noise. He drew himself up as if preparing for an interview… or perhaps for a patient’s operation: a steadily breathing calm with nerves held tightly in check. She could hear her heart thumping in her chest, and probably he could hear it too.

The car that stopped outside bore the black and gold livery of the Orlesian Guard, a crimson light flashing on its roof, like some kind of mutated luminescent wasp, buzzing in the evening heat.

A tall man – not Orlesian, but Tevinter, from what she could tell – stepped out of the driver’s side, a glowing flashlight in his hand. His moustache and beard were carefully and precisely cut around thin lips, which broke into a cruel smile. An Orlesian woman stepped out of the passenger seat and walked around the car to join him, her hair shaved close to her head.

Neither of them looked in the mood for joking, and Ellana felt her heart thumping hard in her chest as she realised she was looking down the barrels of their firearms.

“What an unexpected pleasure. _Elves_ ,” sneered Tevinter. “Caught in the act, no less.”

The Orlesian woman thinned her lips, but added nothing more. Her badge read _Commander Clarel._ From what Ellana knew of the markings on their uniforms, _she_ was actually the senior.

Josephine took a breath, and stepped forward. “I can explain. This is Ellana Lavellan, and she rents this studio. We were clearing up after the break-in earlier today.”

Clarel listened carefully, clearly swayed by Josephine’s calm manner and expensive dress. “No-one reported a break-in. Unless… Erimond, had you heard something before you collected me just now?”

“Then how did you know to come here?” asked Ellana, querulously, wishing they would put away their weapons. It was making it hard for her to think straight, or suppress her growing anger.

“We were tipped off,” said Erimond. “Studio on Griffon Wing Road, smashed windows, elves inside.”

“That’s madness!” said Solas, suddenly lunging forward at him, and smashing him to the ground with an impressive right hook to the jaw. “For all we know, you were tipped off by the real culprits.”

Ellana flung herself to the floor as a blast from Erimond’s weapon went over her head. Her last conscious thoughts were… _my gods, he punched him… not the roof as well!_

And then it all went black.

  
  



	9. Mute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Listening is hard, but speaking’s harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three updates in three days... not sure I've ever managed that before! But I couldn't leave Ellana in the darkness long.

The ceiling was all wrong. It was pale green, blurry, out of focus, and moving. Ellana closed her eyes against her pounding headache, whimpering with pain. Her hands and arms felt wrong as well. Someone was carrying her, none too gently. Metallic clangs resounded through her brain, multiple and echoing like footsteps on a bridge of iron chains, before and after someone laid her down. The mattress smelled of lemon disinfectant. She supposed that it could have been worse.

Maybe she lapsed into unconsciousness again, because the next things that she heard were angry voices: one loud and high and faraway; one soft and low and close.

“If you had just let me explain to them...” said the loud one.

“I… couldn’t wait,” said the deep voice. He sounded weary.

“I thought doctors were supposed to be good with patience,” snapped the female voice.

“Was that meant to be a joke? Ms Montilyet, your facility with words under duress is remarkable.”

Footsteps hammered through her brain. “Yes, and if you had let me, it would have been so easy to _explain_ to them, rather than pulling that ridiculous stunt and getting us all incarcerated.”

A sigh. “Are you sure you won’t sit down? Your relentless pacing is not exactly conducive to recovery from a stunner blast. I’m speaking from experience here. Please, Josephine, sit down.”

Ellana felt a cool hand round her wrist. The voices seemed to come from far too far away. She tried to murmur a response to his – _Ellana? –_ but the words just didn’t seem to want to come.

A rustle of fabric closer by suggested that Josephine had sat down beside the doctor. His voice sounded… familiar, as if she ought to know his name. He smelled of embrium and aria: a comforting scent. She tried to focus on it and block out the disinfectant smell.

“I assume you really are a doctor,” said Josephine.

“Yes, I really am a doctor.”

“Is she ok? Why is she still unconscious?”

She heard him take a breath, and felt his fingers loosen from her wrist. “I think she’s coming round at last, though I’m worried about her hands. If you see anyone in the corridor let me know. We need to ask for bandages and water, if they’ll give us any. Speak quietly, please. Miss Lavellan will have a monstrous headache when she wakes, and any extraneous noise will only exacerbate the effects and delay her full recovery.”

Josephine obediently murmured: “You do _sound_ as if you know what you are talking about.”

“I’m a consultant at LIVAL… L’Infirmerie du Val Royeaux,” explained the doctor. “One of the roles I carry out is to advise on reconstructive surgery following incidents with weapons such as those we saw today. Sometimes I give evidence in court about the weapons that might have caused particular injuries, which means that I am tolerably familiar with the types of weapons that are legal in Orlais… and those that aren’t.”

“Reconstructive? But surely stunners don’t cause injuries that require reconstructive surgery?”

“Regulation stunners don’t. You saw Clarel take me down – and Erimond as well, of course – with a regulation stunner, standard issue for the Guard. If you had tried to resist arrest, she would have stunned you with that as well, and you’d have recovered consciousness within half-an-hour like me.”

“It’s been… oh, of course, they took my phone… well, surely more than an hour now. Are you saying that Ellana was hit with something other than a regulation stunner? But that would be…”

“Highly illegal, yes.”

Josephine’s voice grew louder. “Did you know that when you punched him? Solas, that was brave!”

 _Solas… yes, that was his name._ Ellana tried to open her eyes to see his face, or stretch out her hand again to feel his on her own, but her body still refused to obey her brain’s commands.

“It… was not ideal, and for what it’s worth I’m sorry that it landed you in here as well. We’ll probably have to wait some time before they get around to sorting out our paperwork, and pay extortionate bail charges to be let out. But there was no alternative. I couldn’t let him fire it straight at… her, and getting Clarel to take us both out quickly seemed the best that I could think of at the time.”

“And I thought you were being reckless…”

“It was a calculated risk. I knew that they’d been smuggled from Tevinter, and that the injuries followed operations carried out by the Orlesian Guard. I theorized that the difference in its balance I observed tonight must mean that it was illegally enhanced. And it seems I was correct.”

“You don’t sound very happy about that conclusion.”

“He’ll have woken up by now as well, and unless Clarel is sharper than the average Orlesian Guard Commander, or particularly distrustful of subordinates, she may not have realised yet that he held an illegal weapon. Erimond will have disposed of it, or fled, or both. And Ella… Miss Lavellan… was still hit by a ricochet of the blast, as well as being hit by ceiling tiles that it dislodged.”

“Why do you call her Miss Lavellan? I am sure that you could call us by our first names after this.”

“At present she’s my patient. I need to keep a proper distance from her.” His voice was curt in response, but softened. “But I must also thank you, Josephine. Your diplomacy did buy me time to assess the situation at the studio, and but for that we might all three of us have borne the brunt of Erimond’s stunner.”

“You said it was enhanced. Why is it so terrible?”

Ellana managed at last to make her mouth let out a moan, and was rewarded by a cool hand on her face again, gently turning her face this way and that… to test her neck, perhaps? Her eyes still wouldn’t open. She heard him… _Solas_ … breathe a sigh of relief.

“She’s coming round, that’s good. Do you know anything about how stunners work?”

Josephine managed a weak giggle. “Not really, no. I fire off rounds of paperwork rather than bullets. The battles in the University Press are usually fought with cutting words.”

“Far safer than the lives of half the poor in Val Royeaux. Regulation stunners knock you out for roughly half an hour. You might knock your head on the ground while falling, but usually it just leaves bruises and fatigue, and a headache like the one I’ve got, persisting for about a day.”

“Do you want me to get something for you if they come?”

“Water would be good. But until then, I can endure it. You’ll note I haven’t tried to stand. My legs will most likely regain the appropriate sensations in about another hour.”

“Have you been hit by a stunner blast before?”

He sounded amused. “Yes, actually, I have. The circumstances were quite different, though.”

Josephine stayed silent, perhaps waiting for him to explain. Ellana wished he’d change the subject away from injuries and stunners, perhaps to something like… gateau. Or fantastical mermaids emerging from the murky depths and swimming into golden sunsets.

He didn’t explain or change the subject, but the amusement was entirely absent now. “I’ve not been hit by one of the illegally modified Tevinter ones, although I have seen their effects on victims. The usual stunner blast is a pulse of energy: smooth, contained and focused. The enhancement makes the pulse chaotic. A direct hit to the face leaves scars, and may cause damage to the brain as well.”

She could hear Josephine gulp, and she wanted to be sick herself, all of a sudden, right over the disinfected mattress, or whatever it was that they had put her on. Another moan escaped her lips, and her fingers stretched out. She felt them clasped securely in a hand again, a calloused thumb running a groove across her open palm, slow and rhythmic. Calming.

“So…” said Josephine, eventually. “Will Ellana be ok?”

“From what I saw before Clarel eventually stunned us, the pulse bounced off the ceiling tiles. Most of the energy should have dissipated then. There’s two things that I don’t yet understand, though…”

He broke off, and Ellana could hear voices in the corridor. With an immense effort, she levered her eyelids open and looked up. Neither Josephine nor Solas was looking in her direction, and she followed their gazes across the sparse cell room and to the locked steel door. The entire room was painted sickly green, reminding her of felandaris.

The footsteps stopped outside their door.

“Commander, I am still waiting for an explanation as to how these vile, illegal weapons are being used on the streets of Val Royeaux, and by my own Orlesian Guard, no less. I demand to see Ellana Lavellan immediately, and any others with her in this cell.”

“I cannot allow you to risk yourself within the cell, ma’am,” said her companion. “We have not fully assessed the danger that she or her companions pose. But if you will accompany me to the interrogation suite, I will endeavour to apprise you of the situation.”

That first voice was achingly familiar too, but in Ellana’s bewildered, nauseous, knocked-out state it took several moments more before she placed it. The footsteps led away again; the door stayed closed. But she knew she’d recognised that voice.

“Celene…” she breathed, forgetting that she’d forgotten how to speak. “How did she know?”

Two pairs of eyes swung round to meet her. One pair were soft and hazel, swimming with sudden tears above a dusty, once-exquisite, golden dress.

The other pair were blue and warm, like sea after a summer thunderstorm. She’d happily drown in those, or in that scent of embrium.

“You’re going to be all right, Ellana,” said Solas, his voice a steady reassuring calmness – his hand still holding hers, thumb still stroking calmly, softly – only betrayed by a tremor as he said her name.

_I thought that I was Miss Lavellan. Apparently not._

The relief broke across her body in waves, and at first she simply stared at him, gripping his hand more tightly when he moved as if to let it go. And then she blinked, and took a deep long breath.

“You’re going to be all right,” he repeated, and this time she watched a slow smile creep across his face. “You’re going to be all right, _da’len_. I’ve got you.”

  
  



	10. Peppermint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellana can’t feel her hand. The other one.

He leaned closer in, and she could feel his breath upon her face, sweet and hot and faintly tinged with peppermint. His eyelashes were dark and long, and the ghost of a smile remained.

His voice was pitched low, a sombre murmur. “I’m just looking at your eyes.”

Ellana wasn’t sure whether he was checking them as part of a medical examination or for some other reason. She blinked at him again, bewildered. His eyes reminded her of Papae’s, somehow.

“Thank you,” she said. It seemed appropriate, though she couldn’t remember why.

Then he drew back, and she breathed in only lemon disinfectant. He began speaking again to Josephine, perched upon a plastic chair high up above the mattress on the floor. Ellana clung to his hand, trying to form something sensible to say, and failing utterly. She closed her eyes again and tried to calm herself by steady breathing, exercises Ethie taught her when she couldn’t fall asleep.

“It’s just like before… it’s just like before…” she found herself repeating, sometime later.

“Sorry, what was that?” asked Solas, more loudly.

She opened her eyes and found his face bent close to hers once more, a worried frown drawing his eyebrows close together. “I like peppermint,” she said, not wanting to remember what she had been trying to drive out of her mind.

“You were saying something else. What was it?”

Ellana shook her head. “No, no, I don’t want to remember it.”

He nodded, accepting this, and carried on stroking her hand gently with his thumb. She felt her eyelids closing, wanted just to drift away again, but he was speaking: “…Ellana, are you able to move at all so I can see your other hand?”

That ought to be simple, but her body didn’t want to move. She was trying to work out how to tell it what to do when heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor again.

Her eyes flew open and she saw, through the bars set in the door, a face with a moustache.

Instinctively she tensed, heart racing, before the door was unlocked and opened. _Was it…?_

She breathed out quickly as she realised that it was not the murderous Tevinter, but a different Orlesian Guard. Like Erimond he had a dark moustache and wore the same blue uniform. Her heart was going to beat out of her chest. She told herself that he was paler, taller, different, that he looked kinder, but she couldn’t shake the image of the guards who held the stunners.

Solas kept on stroking her right hand, never taking his eyes away from the door. The man with the moustache stood at the door, two other officers behind him, and consulted a list in his hands. His gaze took in Ellana on the mattress and Solas beside her – _noting that we’re elves_ , thought Ellana, bitterly, as Solas gave her hand a squeeze – before alighting and remaining on Josephine.

“Josephine Montilyet, please come with me,” he said. “I am Inspector Stroud, and I have been asked to bring you to the interrogation suite.”

Josephine stood up from the plastic chair in one graceful movement. “Certainly, _monsieur_ ,” she said, quietly and politely. “Would it be possible for one of your men to bring my companions here some bandages and water? Miss Lavellan is injured.”

“Has she cut herself?” asked the Inspector, stepping quickly over to where Ellana lay.

“Surface lacerations only, if fate is kind,” said her doctor, “although I have not been able to reach her other hand to check. Observe how tightly she is clenching it, and the blood on the sheets below. She’s still in shock and may not be able to feel it yet.”

“If you hadn’t jumped Erimond, knife-ear, your girlfriend wouldn’t have had to be stunned,” called a fair-haired officer from the doorway, muttering, “Crazy knife-ears” only half under his breath.

“Get the kit, Poulin,” said Stroud, kneeling down and leaning in to grasp her other wrist. She could see him holding it, but couldn’t feel his hand – or hers – at all. Black terror began to wash over her.

“Miss Lavellan, would you mind releasing my hand?” said Solas, quietly to her, and she tried to focus on the calm sound of his voice. “If the officers will remove my handcuffs, I can make an inspection of your other hand. My legs have not yet recovered from the stun and my hands are perfectly steady now, with no residual signs of tremor.”

Ellana belatedly realised that both of Solas’ hands were restrained by handcuffs attached to a belt tightly cinched around his waist, the same for Josephine, and that she herself had a similar belt around her waist, but without the handcuffs having been applied. She slackened her grasp on his, but he didn’t immediately remove his hand. It must have been – still be – terribly uncomfortable for him to have kept holding hers, straining his wrist against the restraint around it.

Poulin brought in a red box, presumably the first-aid kit, and laid it on the ground on the other side of Stroud from Solas. “I hardly think that _you’re_ a doctor, knife-ear.”

“ _Are_ you a…” began Stroud, and then he looked at Solas more intently. “Do I know you?”

Solas’ thumb pressed hard into her palm, before he controlled himself and forced it to resume its rhythmic massaging. “Is it so hard to imagine that an elf should train in medicine? I am Dr Solas Velouteau, consultant surgeon at LIVAL. Maybe you have seen me in court giving expert evidence?”

Stroud had knelt down beside Solas on the floor, a gentle hum his only response.

“Be careful, ser, he might be lying,” called the third officer. She had remained standing at the door, thin and tall. “You heard about what he did to Erimond? That knife-ear’s dangerous.”

“Could you two just be quiet for a minute?” said the Inspector. He took a square of cotton on the kit and laid the hand she couldn’t feel on it. She watched, shivering, as he peeled back her fingers from the palm, revealing an ugly wound, a splinter of pale green ceiling tile still embedded in it.

“Urrrgh…” she managed.

“Can you feel any sensation in your hand, Miss Lavellan?” asked Solas, clearly determined to claim her as his patient. He’d let go of her hand to push himself up on the floor and get a better look.

Gingerly, she shook her head. “No, nothing. Is it the shock?”

“The after-effects of the stun, I presume,” said Stroud, lifting the splinter out with tweezers. Poulin had grown bored and wandered over to the door, where he muttered something to the female officer, who laughed loudly and unpleasantly.

Josephine had been standing very still, and watching, but now she took a breath and walked over to lean down beside Stroud, catching Solas’ eye then saying quietly, “Inspector Stroud, in your experience, how long do the after-effects of stuns last? The blast that hit Ellana was at 18:26. I distinctly remember the time on the clock in the studio. The blast wasn’t even aimed at her.”

Ellana saw Stroud’s hands pause slightly in his bandaging, and he cast a surreptitious glance at Solas.

“It varies,” he said simply, and stood up. “Right. I think that will suffice for now. Ms Montilyet, will you come with me?”

Josephine exchanged another look with Solas, who nodded, lips tightly pursed, and soon the cell door had clanged shut, leaving her alone with him. _Her doctor._

He used his hands to lever himself along the side of the mattress, and sat with his back against the wall, legs flat out in front of him, side by side with Ellana, within arm’s reach. His head drooped over his chest, sharp ears pointing upwards to the clinical white ceiling tiles. He looked exhausted.

Now that the Orlesian Guards had gone, her heart rate was returning back to only twice as fast as normal, though she still felt sick. Words and memories were coming back as well.

“Why can’t I feel my hand, Solas? I remember you said something about a pulse, chaotic…”

He winced and straightened up. “The most likely outcome is that you will began to regain sensation in a day or so. I was too occupied to see what happened, but Josephine said that you ducked when Erimond shot above your head. I am hoping that your hand is only enduring a temporarily paralysis from absorbing the energy held latent in the ceiling tile that it absorbed from the stunner blast. The energy from the pulse shattered a large area of tiles in your studio’s ceiling – I believe I can extend my loan to cover that, by the way, although it may depend on how much we have to p... pay to…”

“You don’t have to do that, Solas,” interrupted Ellana. She could see his teeth chattering.

“I… I… _want_ to, though.”

“You don’t owe me anything, not really. This is just one more thing that the Dalish girl got wrong.”

“Don’t say that,” he sighed, his blue eyes catching hers and holding. “I didn’t mean to hurt you when I said that. I have… history… with the Dalish. It was selfish. I never meant to hurt you.”

“If what you said to Josephine is true, you saved my life, I think,” said Ellana, reaching out with her right hand to place it on top of his left one, and giving it a gentle squeeze. His hands were freezing cold, and he shuddered at the contact.

“Are you all right?” she asked, suddenly worried as to whether _he_ was suffering from delayed shock as well. “How are your legs? Is that a bruise forming on your face?”

He looked ruefully at his previously neat dark trousers, caked in dust and with one seam ripped close to his ankle, and touched his free hand to his cheekbone, grimacing. “Perhaps it’s not surprising that they didn’t recognise me as a doctor.”

“Perhaps, but they didn’t have to call us knife-ears,” retorted Ellana.

“Or you my girlfriend,” said Solas, continuing to inspect his trousers. “Although…”

She blinked, and squeezed his hand again to get his attention. “Although…?”

He shook his head. “No, it wouldn't be appropriate. You’re my patient.”

“Not according to the Orlesian Guard. Surely the debonair illustrator hasn’t lost his way with words at last,” she teased, and was rewarded by a sardonic glance. “What were you going to say?”

He chuckled, looking down at her. “Well, if you’re sure you’re not my patient, and if we both get out of here, would you consider… coming out to dinner sometime? Somewhere other than the Anchor.”

A faint alarm bell sounded in her mind, but she ignored it. _Probably the stun_. A reflected smile broke across her face like golden dawn. “I’ll probably regret this later, but… yes! Yes, I’d love to, Solas.”

  
  



	11. Cobblestones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we leave Ellana smiling at Solas in the cells and commiserate with Varric.

The trouble with thinking things can’t get any worse, thought Varric, as he swaggered to the next place that would give him a drink, is that they often do.

_No money, no phone, no fiance._

Possibly no girlfriend either. Before Cassandra could get round to that, he’d grabbed his bag and left.

 _Shit._ He’d ruined that nice girl Ellana’s business. Probably her reputation too, and couldn’t even pay the damages. He’d have to pay Cassandra back for that as well, even if she wasn’t speaking to him again. Not to mention actually _propose._ Properly. Couldn’t leave things as they were. Had to get something… right.

A tall lass in a long leather coat swa… swe… swished out of a dark alley.

_Swished? Swasheyed? Nah, swash-eyed was for drunken pirates. Could do with Isabela now to cheer me up._

Sashayed, that was it. Good word, made one think of legs.

She’d gone now, scurrying across the cobblestones. Not scurrying, that was for small animals. Legging it? Too fast. Darting? Skimming? Neither was quite right, so darting would have to do. Someone should make a book that had words in it that were similar to other words, that your average (or mediocre) author could rely on.

Something like the thesaurus thingy on his phone. Right.

Varric looked down the alley, wondering if there were any more legs in it.

There weren’t. There was a sign, creaking as it swung in the wind. _The Rebel Queen._

Under it, a board, which on closer inspection read: _Best Fereldan Ales._ A hidden gem, perhaps?

 

Nah, it was just like any other tacky Fereldan pub he’d bought an overpriced ale in, all syrupy pee-ins to their golden history. Not so golden, if you knew it. Least he’d be safe from Cassandra here. No river for Maker-forsaken gondolas, for a start. Who thought that yelling at a restaurant from a boat was in any way a good idea?

_Someone I’m going to make it up to. Starting now._

The pub was crowded, but that booth in the corner… no, there was a girl in it. Shades and a hoodie.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, moving away.

“I… I’m just leaving,” she said. Obviously, she was in awe of his magnificence. Mediocrity. _Shit._

He watched her progress through the pub, as thin as an Orlesian ~~cock~~ wine bottle and as blind as a… blind thing. She was as far from sashaying as he was from knowing what to say to Cassandra. Tall, though. He bet she could sashay well if she were in a mood for it, with those legs.

The image of his not-fiance yesterday came back to mind, all white and black and pink with anger. Cassandra never went red. Her cheeks flushed dusky pink, whenever she was furious, or…

She’d worn those lacy stockings, too, the ones that went almost all the way up.

He couldn’t help but remember that fateful book-signing in Minrathous, where she’d arrived too late and had assailed – assaulted? – him on his way home. It seemed she had been stalking him for years, not merely minutes. And of all things, she wanted to confirm which of his characters were based on him.

Not just that, but which parts of his characters. And how the smutty scenes were even possible.

_Well._

You wouldn’t expect Varric Tethras to take that lying down, now, would you? Or at least, not outside the Temple of Razikale. He’d booked a room he couldn’t afford at the _Thalsian_ , and taken her out to dinner first.

An excellent plan. Romance, then unexpectedly good sex. Would have worked again, except…

He stared down at his shaking hands. He shouldn’t have been looking up _demean_. He could still see the words now as they’d sunk into the ale, then blackened out. _Belittle, debase, degrade, despise, disparage._

Varric growled at himself, and drank the wordless ale.

 

Two glasses later, he’d decided. A well-worded letter had to do the trick. Varric grabbed his bag from under the table, hooking it up with a finger through the newly stabbed hole. Maybe Daisy would know how to mend it.

His favourite leather satchel too, practically an antique by now. At least Cassandra only used Uncle Vestalus’s jewelled embalming scalpel to wound his pride and joy. Bianca would have shot it point-blank range.

_Shit. She went right through my notebook too. Really knows how to make a point._

He’d do his usual trick of writing a hundred words tonight and fix it up tomorrow.

 

_Dear Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena,_

_Look, I know I messed it up again. I’m sorry. I’d apologise for the hole in the paper too, but that was your doing. Like my lip. But I can forgive those. You flew back from reporting in a war zone, probably didn’t get much sleep, or anything decent to eat out there, and I read all the signs wrong. Big mistake._

_I’m sorry for what I said, and did, and how I said and did it._

_All I want to do is hear how it went, or talk about whatever it is that_

All right, as far as starts went, and he’d polish in the morning. Somewhere in this poncy Orlesian city there must be a shop selling scented paper and a public library where he could send some messages and work on this.

Varric stared down at the notebook, one ink-stained finger rubbing around the rough edge of the hole.

_This wasn’t how tonight was meant to end._

 

He must have been drunker than he thought, because when he looked up, there was a dwarf girl sitting opposite. He hadn’t even noticed her sit down, or her bright fuchsia t-shirt, or the…

“Whazzat drink?” he asked, by way of introduction. The words slurred from his mouth like honeyed ale.

“I don’t know,” grinned the girl, lifting up the tall glass and gazing into its pinky depths.

_Pinky depths? Shit. Must be really pissed if that’s all I can come up with._

Varric realised he had missed the rest of her answer. “Sorry, whaddit you just say?”

“I said,” said the girl even more loudly, “that I saw a woman ordering it and it looked so great that I said I’ll have what she’s having. Look at the little umbrella! And this slime! Lovely, isn’t it?”

“Slime?”

“No, lime!” said the girl, fishing one of them out with her fingers and chewing on it rhapsodically.

_Can you chew rasp… rhasp… damn it._

“I think I’m drunk,” he said conspiratorially, leaning across the table. “Been having a really shit day.”

“Want a lime?”

He nodded, accepting a soggy lime from her fingers. “Here on your own as well? What’s your name?”

“Dagna,” said Dagna. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something. When you came in, there was a girl sitting here, where I’m sitting. Did you notice anything about her?”

Varric slid his notebook off the table and into his bag. “Have you been watching me since I arrived?”

Dagna took a long slurp of her drink before she answered. “No, but I wanted to meet someone. I tracked her here. The barman said she usually sits in this corner of the pub. But then he said she’d gone.”

The thought didn’t seem to dampen her spirits, but his were already soaked. He shrugged. “Tall, leggy. Blonde, I think. Was wearing a hoodie. Left as soon as I arrived. Don’t think I was to blame for that one though.”

“Ah, ok. She didn’t give her name or… well, anything?”

“Nope, sorry. She was wearing sunglasses though. Bit odd, don’t you think?”

The girl leant in, pushing the drink across the table. “Want a sip?”

“Maker, no!” said Varric, horrified. “S'any sweeter than this ale you couldn’t pay me to drink it.”

“You don’t like sweet things?”

“Cakes are ok. What’s the deal with the girl?”

“I think she’s a paparazzi,” said Dagna. “One of those ones who go after celebrities and shoot them. With a camera, not a gun. Obviously!”

Varric frowned, downing his ale. “Paparazza. Female paparazzi's a paparazza. Learnt that in Antiva.”

“I’d love to go to Antiva!” squealed Dagna. “What’s it like? When were you there?”

She didn’t seem to be one of his rabid fans, or she’d have recognised him even in the dim light of the pub. “I’m an author. Have to travel around for… local culture and book-signings and stuff.”

“That’s funny. My boss was taking photos of a famous dwarven author recently. He took her out to dinner when his girlfriend stood him up, and then the girlfriend turned up. In a gondola! Shouting so that everyone could hear! I wish I’d been there to take photos of it. So now the paparazzi are after her as well. My boss, not the girlfriend. Well, maybe both of them. Exciting!”

He groaned, and laid his head down on the table. Of all his luck, to be reminded by a stranger in a bar. And seemed the girl had no clue about today’s events. Probably the business would go tits-up and she’d lose her job.

“You all right?” asked Dagna, putting out a hand to feel his wrist.

“That was me,” he said, lifting up his head from the table. “Varric Tethras, colossal idiot, at your service.”

“You’re Varric Tethras?! Ancestors, I can’t believe it!” She wasn’t faking her excitement.

“Coincidences happen, Dagna,” he said, trying to crack a smile and forget about the website and the break-in. “Fiction depends on them. Wait. If that girl was a paparazza, she’d know me. I don’t think she was.”

“Why not?”

“Paparazzi are predators. She looked more like… prey. The other one, though…” He trailed off. “Was another girl. Saw her just before we left. Outside, heading up the street. Would have been a half-hour ago.”

Dagna sighed, then brightened up. “Come on. Help me trace her? You can be the bait or something.”

 _Bait… or something._ Varric drained the glass. “S’probably the best offer I’ve had all day. Come on, let's do it.”

  



	12. Balloon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dagna is... odd.

“So how’re you gonna trace her?” said Varric, watching the cobblestones wash under his feet like waves.

They’d got out of the pub, dignity only half intact. Dagna hadn’t seen the sideways glances, smirks and gestures as the two dwarves made their way to the door. Or if she had, she’d ignored them. They made an odd pair, he had to admit, their height about the only thing in common. He felt in the pocket of his knee-length trench, looking for a cigarette and his lighter. The coat was navy over his teal-green shirt and dark grey trousers, the whole get-up from a high-class Kirkwall merchant who owed him a favour. Would have been expensive at full price. Dagna’s outfit screamed… well, it was loud and pink and short and cheap.

It had taken him the smirks and glances to realise that what it screamed was _hooker_. Maybe she didn’t realise, and the t-shirt on its own would have been ok, but putting it together with a neon pink latex skirt and matching over-the-knee heeled boots, tightly laced with copper… wires?

Dagna hadn’t answered his question, and he was staring at her legs. “Dagna?” he asked, lighting up.

“Yes?”

“Er… why are your boots laced with wire?”

She giggled. “It’s for if I get hit by lightning. Look!”

Before he could stop her, she’d lain down on the ground, knees up to the sky. Varric shuffled around so he wasn’t looking right up her skirt, and took a long drag on his cigarette. He was half-tempted to just… go, now, but curiosity got the better of him, as it always did.

Dagna grinned up at him. “This way, the highest point of me is the wire. The boots are rubber, so they’ll insulate me from the strike. Great, isn’t it? I don’t know why more people don’t wear things like this!”

He looked up at the sky, blowing a cloud in the… dark cloud overhead. “Are we expecting a thunderstorm?”

“No, but it’s better to be safe than sorry!”

“Aren’t they, er, difficult to get off?” he asked, with a sharp sense of déjà vu. This whole conversation was reminding him of Bianca, and why he wanted someone sane to balance him out. _Like Cassandra. Shit._

“I only invented them this afternoon. Oh. Do you think they might be? I do have a pair of wire cutters at home.”

“You remind me of my ex,” he said, mouth running away before he could help it. “She was one for the wire cutters. Though she kept them locked away. Was really awkward once, when we had…”

Varric was three minutes into the anecdote – which, in a soberer life, he’d sworn he’d never tell – before he realised he had another audience beside Dagna, who was still lying on the ground with her wires in the air.

He realised this because he was hit on the head with a balloon of water.

The balloon of water exploded, drenching his head and trench and shirt and satchel and trousers in… no, that didn’t smell like water.

“Maker’s balls!” he yelled, spinning around. “What are you playing at?”

From somewhere up on the roof of the pub came a muffled laugh. Couldn’t see anyone up there, too dark. But there was a drainpipe and some loose-ish stones, and life with Bianca had taught him a few skills. Mostly about how to get out of situations involving wire and tape, but still. His coat was covered in piss. He had a right to be angry.

“Help me get up there,” he said to Dagna. “I want to teach that guy a thing or two about manners.”

“You smell funny,” said Dagna, wrinkling her nose.

“Yeah,” he said, sighing theatrically. “I figured. Just help me get up there, right?”

She got up, frowning. “You sure it was a guy? Sounded like a girl’s laugh. I think men’s voices are usually deeper than that. Even when they laugh.”

He was struggling to get a foot on to a stone that was about his waist height, and ignored her, instead yelling upwards at his tormentor: “Andraste's ass! Why not just use water?”

The roof stayed silent, and he had levered himself a quarter of the way up the drainpipe, puffing heavily, with Dagna not quite helping behind him, before he felt the pipe begin to break away from the wall. _Shit._

He was sprawled on the ground, Dagna’s wires crushed painfully under his ass, when the flash came.

Dagna wriggled out from underneath him, and he caught an expression on her face which when he was sober he’d know the right word for. Some weird mixture of joyful and insane. She was halfway up the wall before he could stop her, some kind of grippy things on the toes of her boots digging into the grout between the stones.

“Why didn’t you tell me you could climb like that?” he muttered, throwing the sodden cigarette against the wall where he’d left his satchel, and shrugging out of his coat so he could do the same with that.

If he undid the shirt halfway, he couldn’t feel the piss against his skin.

“Nice chest-hair!” called Dagna cheerfully, looking back down at him. She was on the roof already, scrambling out of sight. Yup, she had pink knickers too. At least they were proper knickers, not a bit of string… or wire.

Bianca had gone for proper knickers too. He’d approved of that, easier to get his hands on… or off, if she weren’t in the mood. If Cassandra really wasn’t up for it, perhaps he ought to…

Naw. Bianca had made it very clear that he’d been strictly pleasure, not business. He suspected she was actually married to some gun-running convict nobody had dared mention. Would explain why Bianca didn’t really seem to live in the flat she’d… entertained him in. Cassandra was straight up and down, you knew that if she told you something it was true. Often scary, unpleasant or way too harsh, but in your gut true.

He squelched to the other side of the alley, and sat down on the ground as far away from the roof as he could get. Bloody paparazzi. They’d got the money shot already, more than likely. Wasn’t fair to leave Dagna up there on the roof alone. His head lolled back against the wall behind him. Long day. Too much to drink.

He closed his eyes, and let the sound of conversation float across the alley over him. Maybe he could use this for a book. Publisher would tell him not to get on the wrong side of the paps though. Stupid publisher. Probably milking him for money somehow.

A voice drifted out from the roof. Dagna’s, right.

“It is you!” she was squealing. “You were in the church yesterday! You’re so good at climbing. I can’t believe my plan worked. But then, they so often do! Can I see your camera? I want to be a Dread Wolf too, like you. What happened to your mask? Your face is so pretty!”

“Your face is pink,” came the reply. _Damn. It was a woman._ “In fact, you’re all pink. What’s with that?”

“If people look at me, I get better shots of them. Everyone likes pink! I’m Dagna Janari. I don’t know Varric Tethras, down there. I just borrowed him to try and find you. Can I sit down here? Thanks! What’s your name?”

 _Well, if the wretched woman didn’t know his name before, she knew it now._ Varric groaned, and ran his fingers through his hair. It was only slightly damp with piss. Maybe rage had steamed it off or something.

“Don’t think that I’ll tell you that, not while he’s down there and listening,” said the woman. She sounded sulky.

“Aww, why not? He’s nice. He won’t tell anyone.”

“You say that, but he’s just spent several minutes telling you about the time his girlfriend tied him to a chair and then forgot about him. Doesn’t sound to me like he has a filter when he’s drunk. Maybe not when he’s sober.”

“I know! He wasn’t wearing anything. Funny, isn’t it?”

“I was wearing a blindfold!” he yelled up at them.

The woman shouted back: “Want me to piss into another balloon and throw it at you? No? Then shut up. This one’s cute. I want to talk to her.” Then, to Dagna: “What do you mean your plan worked?”

“You pissed into the balloon yourself?” asked Dagna, ignoring the question. “I tried that once. It’s really hard. Well, really wet actually. Maybe it’s easier for elves.”

The woman cackled. “Better that you’re not an elf, I’d say. You’re funny as well as cute. You need one of these.”

He tried to imagine what it was they were passing between them, some kind of funnel he supposed. If women were meant to piss standing up, they’d have been given longer… thingies.

Varric suddenly remembered finding a strange plastic funnel in Cassandra’s drawers – not her lacy knickers, obviously, her actual wooden drawers – and asking her about it. She’d gone bright pink like Dagna’s shorts and utterly refused to answer. He supposed that when you were reporting from a war zone, you didn’t always have a nice clean toilet to hand.

_Wow. Was this a thing? Did all women know about this? No, ‘cos Dagna didn’t._

“Can I have a go?” she was saying.

The woman cackled again. She sounded fairly drunk as well. “Yeah, why not? Look, I’ll fit a balloon on. You can just move your knickers across your ladybits, don’t need to take them off.”

“Too late!” said Dagna, and Varric shook his head in disbelief as the novel yet unmistakable sound of a dwarf pissing into a balloon through a funnel came from the roof. “What shall I do with this now?”

“You could throw it at him and see if he manages to dodge it this time,” said the woman.

Dagna apparently didn’t think this was a good idea. “I’ll just tie a knot in it. He was nice to me, said he’d been having a really shit day. Think he’s damp enough. Why’d you do it, anyway?”

The woman’s voice was a bit quieter, sullen almost. “Thought he was bothering you.”

“No. I don’t believe that,” said Dagna, slowly and thoughtfully. “You came back because you were listening to us talk in the pub. You’ve got that corner wired up, I saw the antennae taped against the corner. See, I grabbed one. These boots are great for storing things like that. Also, knickers. I usually carry a spare pair. And plasters.”

“I like your boots,” said the woman. “And your knickers. Maybe more if they weren’t all pink. Less poncy.”

“Maybe it’s like camouflage. Like your Dread Wolf mask. Please will you tell me your name?” Dagna giggled, and continued without pause. “You dropped your earbug when you threw the balloon. It fell down there. I picked it up. Look, it matches the make of the antennae. You were wanting another picture of Varric weren’t you?”

The woman whistled, low and long. “You… you’re really smart. Okay. Yes. I won’t tell you my real name, because I don’t know if I trust you yet. And because _he’s_ listening. But some friends know me as Dread Jenny. Hey, pass the balloon. There’ll be others coming out soon, posh Fereldan shits. Help me and I’ll let you see my camera.”

“What if they catch us?” Dagna sounded hesitant.

Dread Jenny snorted. “They’re drunker than nugs in ale. They won’t catch us. Go on, it’ll be funny.”

Some small part of Varric’s brain recollected that its function was self-preservation, and that this did not mean pickling oneself in urine. He dashed across to grab his favourite satchel, and legged it for the safety of the street.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there had to be a reason why Sera's name for Dagna is [Widdle](http://www.dictionary.com/browse/widdle).


	13. Sidekick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric gets back to his hotel, and meets an old friend.

Varric breathed a sigh of relief. He’d made it back to the hotel without encountering any more trouble. He trudged up the worn stone steps, in between the peeling frescos of Andraste, and nudged open the outer door with his toe. This was where he always came, when he had to come to Val Royeaux: away from the fake glitz and tedious Orlesians. No-one knew who he was here. And if they’d known, they wouldn’t have cared.

Orana’s place was on the edge of the old Alienage, the part too shabby to have been gentrified, sturdy enough to have survived. She’d called it _Le Faucon_ , a tribute to her previous employer, Varric’s friend Garrett Hawke. Eleven years of savings from her pay, a loan from Hawke – she wouldn’t take a gift – and she’d bought it.

He shuffled past the reception desk, a neat sign reading _Closed_ in three languages propped against the grille. Almost at the stairs. His room was his usual one: first floor at the back, looking out towards the cathedral.

“Varric! I’d almost given up on you,” cried a familiar voice from the sitting room off to the left. “Orana said you were staying here. She let me have the keys to the cellar, in case you made it back. Some decent wines.”

“That’s a more welcome welcome than I’ve had all day,” said Varric, leaning against the door frame. “I thought you were in Kirkwall, Hawke. No, don’t come too close. I’d better change before I join you. I’ll explain.”

Hawke’s eyes softened in sympathy, and waved his glass in the air. “Drowning your sorrows? Orana gets the papers here. I saw them.”

“Yesterday’s news, I’m afraid. Today’s is that Cassandra kicked me out. Again. Tomorrow’s… shit, Hawke, let me get some fresh gear on and I’ll catch you up.”

“I’ll be here,” called Hawke, taking another sip. “I’ll leave some in the bottle for you.”

****

They’d finished the bottle between them, and the cuckoo clock in the hall was striking one. He knew he must have spun the tale too well, ‘cos Hawke had let him have the last half-glass. A mighty fine red. He’d even managed not to drip it on his fresh white shirt. Thank the Maker that Daisy did his packing – she always worried that he wouldn’t have enough clean clothes, and packed twice as much as he’d have done.

Varric lay back in the armchair, new boots on the grate, almost ready to sleep. Best thing about Hawke being here was that they could talk about something other than himself. Things were never dull with Hawke around. Not that they’d been dull for him either, but, well… Hawke had a way of attracting trouble. And if that meant that Varric’s own troubles didn’t have to be discussed, he was absolutely and completely fine with that.

“So you’re… going out tomorrow, to some fancy noble’s safari park? To shoot wyvern? Isn’t that illegal?”

Hawke laughed, running a hand back through his dark hair, the hand that wasn’t dangling the empty glass over the arm of the chair. “It’s all legit. A cull. The de Montforts have a permit to kill some number every year.”

“But you’re not one of them. Hell, you’re not even Orlesian… you’re Fereldan. Do they even let you in?”

“Half-Fereldan, Varric. My mother was from Kirkwall… as you know. In any case, they sent an invitation.”

“I don’t know, Hawke,” he chuckled. “This is exactly how it always starts. Someone offers you a freebie, and then two weeks later I get a phone call saying I need to break you out of prison. Or bail you out.”

“You never have the money to bail me out,” said Hawke. “Remember that time in Cumberland? You kept the guards talking while Bianca shot the lock off the door?” 

Varric shivered. “It gives me the creeps to think about it.”

“Too many goths?”

“Naw, I can cope with the goths.” Varric’s expression darkened as he remembered how good Cassandra had looked, all dark and pale and pink with fury, on that boat. Too good for him, an actual Nevarran princess.

Hawke leant across the table and tapped him sharply on the knee. “What, then?”

Varric was about to roll out a line about hating the smell of sunflowers, to avoid having to think any more about Bianca, when an eerie wail echoed from behind Hawke’s chair. He was on his feet before he knew it, hand reaching for a gun he wasn’t carrying, and found that Hawke was reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out his phone. _Oh. Ringtone. Right. Damn, I miss my phone._

“Shit, Hawke,” he began, as his friend waved it at him, smirking, before answering. He sat down heavily on the chair, muttering: “Remind me why I put up with you again.”

Hawke ignored him, speaking into the phone: “Hey, Stroud, what’s up? Apart from both of us, naturally.”

Varric tried to place the name. Hawke knew all kinds of folk, so it could be anyone. He drummed his fingers on the armchair’s leather arm. His friend was mostly listening, so it wasn’t banter. Then he rang off. He’d got that faraway look in his eyes that meant he was regretting something, usually something he hadn’t done yet.

“Spill the beans. What’s gone wrong now?”

Hawke shook his head, frowning deeply. “I knew that last glass was a mistake. We’re going to need a taxi. Can’t risk driving, not where we’re going. Did you ever meet Stroud, Varric?”

“Can’t place the name, no.”

“Dark hair, never smiles, moustache to down below his jawline. Impressive. Wish I had one like that.” He was dialling for a taxi already, straight into the action. Varric was going to have to play catch-up as usual.

Thing about Hawke was how damned impressive he was, speaking seven different languages and never getting caught, no matter how unplanned the plan was. Maybe it was some kind of genetic dwarven beard envy, but Varric couldn’t spend any time with Hawke without ending up with a huge sidekick complex. The world parted around him, leaving lesser men like Varric in his wake, coughing and spluttering. He’d let him flirt with _Bianca_ , for crying out loud, even when the two of them were… whatever they’d been.

His Orlesian accent was perfect, his neatly trimmed beard was perfect, and he was so much the hero of every scene that Varric hadn’t had to alter anything about him when he’d written his bestseller. His first bestseller, he reminded himself. Cassandra had begged to meet him, when she’d found out that the Champion was real.

He’d never got around to making that happen. Perhaps that was the unkindest cut of all, knowing that Hawke-envy had got to him so badly that he didn’t dare let his girlfriend meet his best old buddy. He looked down at his satchel, sighing. The thing with Cassandra was so ruined, that it probably didn’t matter now, if she met Hawke.

“Where are we going?” he asked, as Hawke shoved his phone back in his pocket.

“Weren’t you listening?”

He forced a grin. “You were talking in Orlesian, Hawke. Not everyone speaks eighteen different languages.”

“Only seven, Varric. Common, Orlesian, Qunlat, Elven, Tevene, Antivan, Rivaini.”

Varric rolled his eyes, and patted his pockets for his key. “Yeah. Eighteen. Seven. Lots.” His trench ought to be dry by now, and he’d would definitely take his satchel, even with the hole in it. Then a bright thought struck him, like the chime of the clock. “Stroud? Wait… moustache, you said. Orlesian Guard? We met him once, off duty.”

Hawke beamed from ear to ear. “See, I knew you’d remember!”

 _Right._ “So what’s the deal?”

“Stroud’s got someone in the cells who he thinks might have been hit by a lyrium stunner blast. He wouldn’t say much but he wants us to go down and check out the weapon. See if it’s like the ones we found last time.”

“You mean he wants **you** to go down and check the weapon,” said Varric. “Where do I come in?”

“But you like weapons! Come on, it’ll be fun. Knowing you, there’ll be something for your books out of this. Portia de Gaste, she was in the Orlesian Guard, right? Only, try not to look too drunk, or they’ll arrest you too.”

It probably was the drink that made him agree. The idea that he’d been condemned by the Maker to living out his life as an eternal sidekick was just too depressing to think about.

****

He was still rueing Hawke’s infectious charm all the way to downtown Val Royeaux, with the taxi swerving round the bends and making the wine and Fereldan ale some kind of lethal cocktail in his stomach. Hawke had had as much to drink as he had, probably more, but his voice remained unslurred and humorous, bantering with the driver about the best ways to kill a wyvern. By the time they drew up by Orlesian Guard HQ, he’d had enough.

“I think I’ll stay outside and smoke,” he said, as Hawke paid off the driver with some crowns and a smile.

“Then they’ll definitely put you in a cell,” said Hawke. “Come on and loiter inside. Hey… isn’t that Cassandra?”

Varric’s eyes went wide, and he could almost feel his skin blanch. It _was_ Cassandra, talking earnestly with another woman as they hurried out of the door. It took a good ten seconds before he recognised the woman with dust caked through her hair, a torn dress and regulation flip-flops as the charming Josephine Montilyet.

“Varric?” said Hawke, poking him not-so-gently between the shoulder blades. “Come on. Introduce me. You always said you would, and never did.”

“This is a bad idea,” said Varric, knowing it was a bad idea, but he let Hawke tow him along. They were halfway up the steps when Cassandra saw him, half-hidden by Hawke’s majestic bulk, but betrayed by the stark white lighting. Her face went as pale as his, and he saw her grasp at Josephine’s arm. _I’m not a ghost, Cass._

“Varric!” she called, and this time she actually sounded relieved. “I have been trying to contact you.”

He ascended the steps, exchanging a worried smile with Josephine, tactfully deciding not to mention the dust or their location. Hawke stood beside him, ready to steal the scene. “Did you call my hotel?”

Cassandra pursed her lips. “I called _Le Faucon_ , but their reception was closed. Why do you not stay in a proper hotel, which is open at all hours? There are some within your price range.”

Varric sighed. Five words, and they were arguing again. “Orana is a friend of a friend. Besides, I like the décor.”

“I’m the friend,” said Hawke, catching Cassandra’s eye and bowing slightly. Varric winced. “Garrett Hawke. A pleasure to meet you at last. And you are Cassandra Pentaghast, am I correct? I always watch your reports.”

Cassandra appeared flustered, and she didn’t look back down at Varric. “Hawke? The real Garrett Hawke?”

“The Champion of Kirkwall, as in the book?” said Josephine, looking starstruck as well as dust-struck.

Hawke laughed, and flexed his arms. “The very one. You look like you did need rescuing, Madame…”

“Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet,” said Varric, with a slight cough. “Of Antiva. Are you ok, Josie?”

“Does she look “ok”?” said Cassandra, her Nevarran accent becoming more pronounced with her agitation. “Varric, it is terrible. Josie was with the doctor, Dr Velouteau, who…” She flushed, as Varric pointed to his lip, nodding briefly. “And with Ellana Lavellan, the photographer. Ellana has been hit by an illegal stunner, Varric!”

He was just about to answer, but Hawke got there first. “Well… shit.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20 March 2017: this story is currently the one that gets written when I get stuck with other ones, but I do have a plan (read: a general intent) to get it all properly plotted out. Then there should be a whole burst of new chapters and eventually a final chapter. It's kinda like Varric's romance novels taking a back seat to _The Inquisitor Lavellan Story_... right now my muse is stuck in canon (and post-canon) mode.
> 
> Now imagining a muse stuck in cannon mode, which is just silly. Lob those chapter grenades, serah!


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